


Tales From the Multiverse

by Hinn_Raven



Series: Donut Siblings [11]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Siblings, Brainwashing, F/F, F/M, Family, Felix Being a Dick, Gen, Original Character(s), Project Freelancer, Resurrection, Role Reversal, RvB14 Spoilers, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 57,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five worlds that never happened to the Donut Family, and one world that did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awful Energy

**Author's Note:**

> … there is no excuse for this. None at all. 
> 
> So it started with sroloc–elbisivni and goodluckdetective throwing around some suggestions for how various things could/should happen to to the Donut Sibs. And I jokingly promised myself that if I got five, I’d write a 5+1 fic. And then I got it, and started writing to procrastinate. And then I was like… oh dear, these are going to be long.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hargrove decides they could use some leverage over Agent Washington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! First entry! Concept: Hargrove figures out who Wash is, and decides that, of course, kidnapping the tiny psychologist is the best way to try to handle things. Jackie, of course, has other ideas. 
> 
> Warnings: death, violence, torture, manipulation, suicide mention, Felix and Locus being not good people

**Awful Energy**

The woman was small and thin, with a thick mass of curly brown hair that strained against the elastic that was keeping it in a sloppy ponytail. Rimless glasses were perched precariously on her face, which was heavily freckled.

She crossed her arms and glared, seemingly unafraid, and unflustered, despite being in a cell and faced with two armored figures.

“Did you assholes seriously abduct me on my way to work?” She demanded.

Felix couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s what you’re worried about? Really?” Felix had no idea who she was, or what was going on, but the woman looked like she could be knocked over by a strong gust of wind, and yet she was glaring at them, as if she was hoping to scold them into letting her go.

The woman’s nose wrinkled as she sniffed. “I had a full day ahead—it takes _weeks_ to convince Ms. Fiddler that she needs to come in for her appointments, and now I’ll be lucky if I ever get her even _near_ my office again—”

Locus lost patience, and took a step forward menacingly. For the first time, Felix saw fear flare in the woman’s eyes, although she didn’t shrink like he expected. She was either very stupid or very stubborn, Felix decided. “Quiet,” Locus demanded.

For a moment, the woman looked like she was considering it, but her mouth opened up, doubtless to tell Locus where exactly he could shove it. Felix was preparing to enjoy the show, when the speakers in the room crackled to life, and the filtered voice of Hargrove came through.

“Now Locus,” he chastised. “Be polite. Ms. Jacqueline—”

“Doctor,” the woman snapped. “I spent years on that degree, don’t be rude.”

Felix nearly laughed as Hargrove paused. He hated being interrupted. This Jacqueline clearly wasn’t realizing just how serious her situation was.

“ _Doctor_ Jacqueline will be instrumental in assisting with the problem that is the simulation troopers.”

Felix felt his eyebrows raise as he looked at the tiny doctor. She was wearing a skirt, a suit jacket, and a pair of dressy heels. She looked like she _jogged_ for exercise.

Her hands moved to her hips, and she tilted her head back to address the security camera in the corner. Felix was impressed she’d found it so quickly—and that she’d known to look. “And why—not to mention _how_ am I supposed to do that? I’m a psychologist, not military, and I’m really not too inclined to help you out right now.”

“I am afraid you misunderstand me, Doctor. You are here as leverage.”

“Over who? My sisters, the farmer and the carpenter? My retired parents?”

“Your brother—” Hargrove began, sounding irritated.

“Both of my brothers are dead, asshole,” Jacqueline said. Felix frowned under his helmet, trying to put all the pieces together.

“On the contrary,” Hargrove _really_ sounded peeved now. “Agent Washington—or, as you know him, _David_ —is alive and well, and causing us quite a deal of trouble.”

Felix stared at the woman. He’d seen the Freelancer’s face on a briefing he’d been given, and now that he was looking for it, he could see a resemblance. The same freckled face, the same bright blue eyes, even if hers were hidden by the glasses. The same stubborn line to her mouth.

Jacqueline, however, wasn’t buying it. “So, you’re telling me that my dead brother now goes by a state name, is alive, and hasn’t contacted me to let me know otherwise in over ten years.” She shook her head. “And you think I’ll work as _leverage_?”

“I am quite certain of it. Fortunately, your belief is unnecessary.” Hargrove signed off with a click, leaving the two mercenaries alone with Agent Washington’s younger sister.

Jacqueline turned her attention to the two of them, her eyes focusing more on Locus. “Isn’t Locus the name of that armor?” She asked, in a voice that reminded Felix of far too many psychologists. “You know it isn’t healthy to depersonalize like that—especially in a violent setting—”

This time, no one stopped Locus from knocking her to the ground with a vicious backhand. “ _Quiet_ ,” he ordered again.

“Lashing out doesn’t make what I say less true, Locus,” the woman said, wiping away the blood that was trickling out of her mouth. “You should probably see someone about that. Not me. Hostage situations, even when they involve imaginary dead brothers, don’t lead to a conductive patient-doctor relationship.”

Felix snorted, and the woman’s eyes turned towards him, but she didn’t say anything.

She squinted at him, not getting up yet. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Now, now,” Felix drawled. “ _Manners_.” He clicked his tongue reproachfully, but offered her a hand up. She glared at him, but took it. “I’m Felix,” he said brightly. “You know, I _never_ thought of Washington as a brother type. I mean, imagine my surprise when I found out he was related to _Donut_.” Fear flared in Jacqueline’s eyes again, this time brighter. He smirked, elbowing Locus in the side. “Tell us, you older, or younger?”

“My brothers are dead,” she repeated, but there was a hint of uncertainty now.

“Well, I’m sure they will be soon enough,” Felix said, as upbeat as he could manage. “We’ll leave you alone for now. I’m sure we’ll stop by later. I have _so many_ questions, and I’m sure my partner here does too.”

Her eyes darted between the two of them, and all the uncertainty disappeared, replaced by a fierce kind of determination that cemented her resemblance to Washington.

“See you around,” she called as the door swung shut, and _oh_ , Felix was going to enjoy breaking down that bravado.

* * *

Jackie knew the following things:

  1. That she was a long, long way from home.
  2. That these people thought her brothers were alive, and wanted to use her as leverage.
  3. That the people holding her captive were _assholes_.



She wasn’t sure how long she’d been here either, which was worrying. Mitch and Martha were going to be worried, and given the kind of people who’d kidnapped her, Jackie doubted they’d been so kind as to leave a note.

Which meant that no one besides her kidnappers knew where she was. And Jackie knew she was a _long_ way from home.

Who the fuck kidnapped a psychologist from Iowa and then took them across the fucking galaxy to serve as a hostage to a long-dead brother?

She looked around the cell they’d left her in, and frowned. It was a small concrete cube, with a cot shoved into the corner, bolted to the floor. There was a small sink and a toilet in the corner, in full view of the security camera, which blinked ominously at her. There were three speakers in the room, probably for psychological torture, but they hadn’t been active since whoever was in charge had spoken to her.

Locus and Felix hadn’t been back since they’d left hours ago. She’d tried the door—locked, of course—and examined the small hatch at the bottom, which was probably meant for feeding.

The rest of the room was bare concrete. Jackie took off her heels and sat down, cross legged on the bed, her back to the wall so she could watch the door.

There was nothing to do, and so Jackie kept rolling over her two (that she’d seen so far, she’d heard footsteps outside often enough that there were clearly more people here, wherever that was) in her head.

Military, obviously. And very different. She wondered how much information she could get out of them. Maybe she could learn something about where she was, or what was going on.

And why they seemed to think David was alive and their enemy.

She stomped viciously down on the hope that was flaring in her chest. David had been spaced. It had been over a decade since then. The odds of him surviving the vacuum of space, and then surviving all these years was painfully slim. And if he had somehow survived, why hadn’t he tried to contact them?

It didn’t add up. It must be a mistake somehow.

A mistake that would probably get her killed, Jackie thought grimly, drawing her knees up to her chest. When the seemingly calmer one was willing to hit her for talking out of turn, she shuddered to think what the more excitable one would do to her when they figured out that she couldn’t get them whatever it was they wanted.

Jackie was going to die out here, and her sisters wouldn’t have answers _again_. It had been bad enough with David. But losing Frank to a spaceship crash, and now her just vanishing on her way to work…

Jackie wasn’t about to cry in front of that security camera, but she was sorely tempted. She and Frank had always been of the opinion that crying was therapeutic, but she needed to keep herself together if she was going to survive this. Somehow.

The door swung open as she tried to steer her thoughts away from their maudlin turn, and a tall, dark skinned man with a bland but pleasant smile walked in, carrying a tray.

“You must be Jackie,” he said, and his voice was smooth as silk; the kind of monotone that required years of practice and a _lot_ of control.

Jackie let her knees fall down, plastering her own best psychologist smile on her face. “That’s me,” she agreed pleasantly. “And you are.”

“My name is Aiden Price,” the man said. “I’m very well acquainted with your brothers.”

Jackie couldn’t help but let her smile slip, scowling at him. “That again. My brothers are _dead_.”

“As I understand it, they were both only declared missing,” Price said, tilting his head.

“With a nice little _presumed dead_ addition for David, and a ‘you probably shouldn’t hope too much’ one for Frank,” Jackie said. “They gave us a flag and everything. We had a _funeral_.” And they’d started planning one for Frank. She wondered if they were planning one for her yet.

He sat the tray down on the bed, still smiling that same smile. “It seems that there was a… mix up, with David’s paperwork.”

“Mix up?” Jackie stared at him, pieces falling into place. “Why the hell would you want us to think David was dead?”

“You believe I was involved?” Price asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nice deflection,” Jackie said flatly. “What was the point, isolation? Make sure we couldn’t contact him?”

There, she had him. Surprise flickered in his eyes. “You’re jumping to… _interesting_ conclusions, Jackie.”

Jackie snorted. “I’m a psychologist. I’m good at those.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you after, Dr. Price?”

Again, surprise. “I wouldn’t call myself a doctor, exactly,” Price said. She had him.

“Of course not,” Jackie said. “We’re supposed to do no harm, after all.”

“You seem to be rather hostile, Jackie.”

“I’m being held hostage for a dead brother,” Jackie said flatly. “I’m really not in the mood.”

“Do you dislike being psychoanalyzed yourself, Jackie?” Price asked. “David was not very fond of it either. Franklin, however, seemed to enjoy the opportunity to… talk about his feelings.”

Jackie ignored him, closing her eyes, trying to steady her spiking heart rate. David was dead. Frank was dead. Price’s interactions with them were probably from ages ago. There was no need to listen to him, no need to rise to his bait.

By the time Jackie’s heartrate had resumed resting speed, Price had left.

* * *

Wash crossed his arm as the video screen flickered to life. “Hey Wash!” Felix’s voice was cheerful. “So, we’ve got something—or rather _someone_ to show you!”

There was a scuffle, and a yelp, and then a haggard-looking woman was pushed into the view of the camera.

Her hair was matted and dirty, hanging loose around her face. She had a black eye and there was a scab on her lip. Her glasses were slightly cracked, and she was baring her teeth at whoever just shoved her into the chair, probably planning on insulting them, before Felix captured her attention by placing a hand on her shoulder in a way that would be familiar if it weren’t for the way that she flinched away from his touch.

“Hey Jackie! Look who’s calling!” He said, and her eyes spun around towards the screen.

Wash’s stomach dropped.

The last time he had seen Jackie, she was thirteen years old. She’d had braces, and a grin on her face. Now, she looked like she’d been through hell.

“Who the fuck is that?” Jackie demanded. “How many times do I have to tell you assholes? My brother is _dead_! They both are! I’ve never seen that stranger before in my _life_!”

A part of Wash wanted to laugh at that, despite everything. It had been an old joke from back when they were kids. Whenever one of them was in trouble, the others would all declare “they’d never seen that stranger before in their life”. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Not with Jackie.

“Who is that supposed to be?” Wash asked, crossing his arms. He saw Jackie’s eyes widen slightly at the sound of his voice, but otherwise, she hid it well. It was the first time they’d seen each other in years, and they couldn’t even say everything they wanted to say.

“I think you two know _exactly_ what’s happening here,” Felix wagged his finger at the screen, clearly enjoying himself. “I’ll leave you two to… get reacquainted. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and I do hope you’ll be more reasonable then, Wash.”

Another pirate moved into the screen, gun out. “Be careful what you say, bitch,” the pirate warned. Wash felt a familiar protective rush, but it was pointless. Jackie was far away, and he couldn’t help her.

Jackie’s mouth twisted in a way that Wash would have recognized as a warning sign a mile off. Jackie had been the least likely member of their family to get into fights when they were kids—she wasn’t a fan of violence. But Jackie was perfectly capable of doing plenty of damage when she was sufficiently motivated.

Jackie lunged, slamming her knee into the guard’s stomach, and then the chain of her handcuffs went around his neck, cutting off his air.

Her head whipped up, keeping her hands in place as she kept holding the guard in place. “I don’t have much time, David,” she said, panting slightly as the pirate grappled at the chain, trying to throw her loose. “I don’t know where I am—I don’t know how long I’ve been here. But they’re going to kill a _lot_ of people.”

“Jackie—”

“You can’t look for me okay? You can’t afford it. You need to _stop them_.” She was glaring at him, ordering him, as if they were kids again.

“Jackie, I’m coming for you, listen to me—”

“You’ve got to find Frank, okay? Make sure he’s fine. They’ve got this therapist here—but he’s an asshole, and he knows you, and he also knows someone named Carolina, so you’ve got to warn her too—” She cut herself off as shouting began in the distance. “Don’t look for me, okay? They’re not going to let me live, not after this!” She lunged towards the camera, and Wash watched, helpless, as Felix appeared, shouting threats, and jumped towards her, a knife in his hand.

The screen went black.

* * *

Jackie stumbled and cried out as Felix grabbed her by the throat, pulling her away from the control console.

“And here I thought you didn’t have any bite,” he said, glancing down at the guard on the floor. “What did you tell him, Jackie?” He pressed his knife against her cheek, and Jackie couldn’t help but flinch as he drew blood.

 _I’m sorry David_ , she thought, struggling slightly for air as Felix’s grip on her throat tightened.

“Fuck you,” she gasped out.

“ _Wow_ ,” Felix said, shaking his head. “Your whole family has a death wish, don’t you?” He raised his knife, and Jackie closed her eyes.

“Felix!” Locus was there, and Jackie let out a as Locus pried the other mercenary off her. Literally—he had to peel away Felix’s fingers from their grip on her neck. Without Felix holding her up, she collapsed. She rolled herself somewhat upright into a kneeling position, clutching at her throat as she tried to process the fact that she was still alive.

“Oh come _on_!” Felix actually _whined_. He sounded like a petulant child, rather than the heartless mercenary who had been a second away from killing her a moment ago.

“We have orders,” Locus said firmly, and Jackie looked up, eyes bright as she looked between the two of them.

“We tell him she tried to escape,” Felix argued. “C’mon, she completely threw everything off—”

“We can contact Agent Washington again,” Locus said firmly. “We follow protocol. This is _not_ up for debate, Felix.”

Jackie half-expected Felix to turn around and kill her anyway, but he held back. Jackie stared at his body language. The armor masked a lot, but…

Jackie was fairly sure that Felix was _afraid_ of his partner.

Felix turned to glare at her again. “You’re going to regret this,” he hissed at her before stalking off, only pausing to grab the guard Jackie had attacked. Hauling the man into a kneeling position, Felix stared right at Jackie, and snapped his neck. Jackie’s stomach revolted at the sight, as the guard flopped down, dead.

Once Felix was gone, Locus grabbed her shoulder and guided her to her feet. “Thanks,” she said, quietly.

He looked at her with surprise. “I didn’t do it for you,” he said flatly.

“Still.” Jackie shrugged. “You saved my life. It’s only polite.”

He looked at her, and Jackie wondered how that fit into his worldview. She was willing to bet it didn’t at all.

 “You should not have done that,” Locus said. He didn’t even bother to have his gun out as he led her back to the cell. Jackie might have been able to briefly incapacitate a guard, but Locus clearly didn’t believe she was a threat to him.

The worst part was, Jackie thought sullenly, was that he was almost definitely right. Felix and Locus were both in a category separate from the rest of the guards. A lot better. They gave orders. They were in control here—only answering to that voice from the speakers.

“Why not?” She demanded. “Felix was always going to kill me anyways.”

Locus paused, almost surprised. She blinked at him. “Oh come on, I’m not stupid. Once you get whatever it is you want from David—Washington, whatever—I’m no use. And there’s no way Felix is just going to let me go.”

“We’re _professionals_ , Doctor,” Locus snapped, clearly offended that she doubted their integrity.

“Fine, maybe you are,” Jackie rolled her eyes. “But are you seriously expecting me to believe that Felix was ever going to let me out of this place?”

Locus didn’t have an answer. Instead he just gestured her into her cell, and slammed the door slightly harder than necessary.

His focus on orders and professionalism was… interesting. She might be able to work with that. And the way he and Felix talked to each other…

For the first time, Jackie felt like she might be able to survive this. She hadn’t expected to make it past warning David. She’d been _so sure_ that Felix would kill her.

Jackie just had to hope that David was doing okay.

* * *

They dragged her in front of the camera again the next day, but this time David wasn’t the one on the other end.

Instead, she was looking at an older, bald man, wearing a neat, but still obviously civilian, outfit, and looking at her as if she was nothing but trouble.

“Doctor Jacqueline. So good to finally meet you,” he said.

Jackie tested her handcuffs as subtly as she could, but with Felix and Locus flanking her, there wasn’t much she could do. “Chairman Hargrove, I assume,” she said sweetly, as if she wasn’t revealing that she was a lot more informed than they expected.

He frowned at her. “You really are testing my patience, Doctor,” he said, dangerously.

“I’d apologize, but I don’t really care,” Jackie said.

“You do realize that cooperating is in your best interests,” Hargrove said.

She tilted her head. “It’s not in the best interests of stopping you committing genocide though.”

“Okay,” Felix said, sounding irritated. “I am taking Cooper off your guard rotation.”

“Which one’s Cooper?” Jackie asked, curious. “Is that the one I made cry yesterday?”

There was no need to mention that there was a rather basic design flaw in her cell—the vents that circulated air might be too small for her to escape through, but they carried sound _very_ well. If she kept quiet and listened, the vents carried her all the base’s gossip. Another reason why she rarely kept quiet when one of her captors was in the room—if she shut up, they might notice. As it was, she’d gathered plenty of intel.

Hargrove was visibly gnashing his teeth. “Doctor, I’m afraid if you won’t cooperate, I will be forced to see if one of your sisters will.”

Jackie couldn’t help it. She _laughed_.

“Locus,” Hargrove said, and Jackie flinched as Locus’s fist collided with her temple.

She stopped laughing, and glared. “You would have already grabbed them if you could,” Jackie said flatly. “Killed one of us in front of David and Frank to show them you’re serious, and then use the other two as leverage.” She smiled widely. “For whatever reason, I’m the only one you can get, Chairman. You’re stuck with the uncooperative psychologist.”

Hargrove’s glare intensified. “You will regret this,” he said grimly. “Your actions mean nothing; your resistance is futile.”

“And yet I’m enough trouble that you bothered to talk to me yourself,” Jackie said, tilting her head to one side. “Which, by the way, is really doing _nothing_ for your argument that you’ll let me go, since I’ve seen your face now. And I proved I knew your name.” She grinned. “You probably should just kill me now, save yourself a lot of trouble.”

Hargrove looked like he might be about to have a stroke. “Take her back to her cell, and figure out where she’s getting her information from!” He ordered. “And don’t let her contact Agent Washington until you’re absolutely certain what she knows!”

Jackie wanted to laugh again as Felix and Locus dragged her back to the cell.

“So Locus, do you have any feelings of regret or remorse for the amount of damage you’re causing?” Jackie asked, unable to resist.

“Stop talking,” Locus snapped.

“What about you, Felix?”

 “You really don’t have any self-preservation instincts, do you?” Felix laughed as they shoved her into her cell. 

She didn’t even care as she went sprawling on the cement floor, wincing as it disturbed some of her still-healing bruises. They weren’t about to give her two-way contact with David anytime soon. And without the ability to confirm it was real-time through an actual conversation, he wouldn’t believe she was still alive. Not anytime soon.

She’d bought him more time.

* * *

“You’re a fucking liar,” Jackie said casually when Felix told her the first time.

“Jackie, Jackie, Jackie,” Felix tutted at her, shaking his head at her like she was a normally smart student who’d given a bad answer for an obvious question. “When have I ever lied to you? I don’t lie—what’s the fun in that?”

“You lie plenty,” Jackie said, rolling her eyes. “You just prefer not to because you think it’s funnier to use half-truths and exploit loopholes; you like the look on people’s faces when you realize they’ve been played. It’s a basic manipulation tactic; you’re good at those. That and your deflection—”

He pushed her to the ground, and kicked her hard in the stomach, neatly avoiding the ribs or any other such breakable part.

“I’ve told you, Jackie,” he cooed, placing a gloved hand on her head, tugging slightly on her hair in a mockery of petting. “ _Don’t_ try to psychoanalyze me.”

“Then stop giving me so much to work with,” Jackie gasped out.

“You talk a good game about all this psychology stuff, but you’re the one in denial here. Your brother isn’t the big hero. He shot your precious Frank—your _baby brother—_ and left him to die.”

A part of Jackie’s heart stopped in fear for a moment, before she reminded herself that Locus and Felix talked about her brothers—both of them—in the present tense until this moment. Frank was alive. Felix was just messing with her.

He got up and left her, and she didn’t get up from the floor for a long, long time.

* * *

Once Sharkface arrived at the base, Felix had one thing on his agenda: he _had_ to introduce their resident ball of issues to their hostage.

“Oh Jackie!” Felix savored the way that she tensed for a second before forcing herself to relax, turning to face the door.

“Who is this?” Sharkface demanded. He was only partially armored, having left his helmet at the repairs table after their last encounter with Chorus forces.

“Sharkface,” Felix said, watching Jackie’s incredulous face at the name. He _really_ hoped she’d ask him about it. “Meet Jackie. She’s Agent Washington’s younger sister,” he added grandly, smirking.

Waiting until Locus was out of the base was worth it for the way that Sharkface smiled. “That so?”

Jackie proved to have some self-preservation instincts, taking a step backwards. Felix smirked widely as Sharkface moved towards her at a leisurely pace.

“Do you,” he hissed, grabbing Jackie’s hair and forcing her onto her toes so he could look her in the eye. “Have _any_ idea what your brother did to me?”

Irritation surged on Jackie’s face. “Until very recently, I thought my brother was dead, so _no_ , I have no idea. But I’m willing to guess it has something to do with your face.”

Felix whistled slightly as Sharkface threw her against the wall. Felix grinned, and left them to it. “Don’t kill her,” he called absently. “I’m planning on killing her in front of Washington. Make him watch.”

Jackie spat blood onto the floor, and Sharkface barely nodded, acknowledging him. Felix made a note to check the security camera feed later. He bet it would be amusing. Maybe he’d forward a few videos to Wash.

* * *

Locus went to check on the prisoner after getting back from patrol.

He didn’t know why he was surprised to see that Sharkface had apparently learned of her existence—Felix’s idea of entertainment, no doubt.

“ _Enough_ ,” Locus snapped, grabbing Sharkface’s arm and hauling him away from the doctor, who was curled up on the floor, hands clasped around the exposed back of her neck and face tucked against her knees. The most defensible position she could manage, Locus supposed. He wondered how long Sharkface had been attacking her. “Report to Price,” he said. “We need her _alive_.”

“I wasn’t going to kill her,” Sharkface grumbled, but he did as Locus ordered. “I’ll be back,” he said to Jacqueline, who didn’t move until the door closed behind him.

Slowly, she uncurled. Her face was a bloodied mess, and already bruises were showing. Her glasses were missing. “I think he might have broken my ribs,” she said. Her temple was bleeding, but not enough to be concerned.

Locus checked her vitals with his helmet. “They’re not broken,” he told her.

“Good,” she said. “Really didn’t want to deal with that.” She prodded her bloodied nose, and winced. “Okay, that’s _definitely_ broken.”

“I will have a medic look over your injuries.” Locus could set her nose himself, but Felix already was going to mock him for stopping Sharkface’s assault. No need to give him more fuel.

“Thanks,” Jackie said. Again with the thanking him, Locus thought with the familiar surge of irritation.

“I don’t do this for you. We need you alive,” he reminded her.

She smiled, her teeth bloody. “My ma would skin me alive if I wasn’t polite,” she said.

Locus shook his head at her strange quirks, and left.

* * *

Wash and Donut were trying not to panic about Jackie, but it was nearly impossible. Wash kept playing the clip over and over again, trying to tell if Felix was going in for the kill.

There hadn’t been contact since then; no demands.

Wash went out and fought, like Jackie had told him too. He tried to pretend that Felix and Locus didn’t have his baby sister captive somewhere, that she was still safe on Earth.

It didn’t work very well. Jackie filled his nightmares, and Donut’s too, he knew that much.

Knowing that the Counsellor was there as well… was worrying. Carolina hadn’t taken the news well, and neither had Epsilon.

Wash knew that Kimball and Doyle were both keeping a close eye on him and Donut. They were worried what having such a direct hostage over them meant, and Wash couldn’t blame them. He was planning on talking about limiting his clearance, should they determine whether Jackie was still alive.

Then Kimball went to get him herself. “Wash,” she said, her voice oddly gentle. Wash’s spine straightened up.

“Is she alive?” He knew exactly what it had to be.

“Inconclusive,” she said, handing him a digital pad.

Wash held it in his hands, and stared.

Jackie’s glasses were missing, that was the first thing he noticed. There was a cut on her temple, and her nose looked broken. Her right eye was blackened, and there were several fading bruises visible as well. She was scowling at the camera, and was clearly fighting against Locus, who was gripping her arms tightly, holding her in place. Which meant that Felix was probably the photographer, Wash thought, stomach twisting in fear.

He remembered what Jackie had told him, about them not letting her live. This photo could easily have been taken ages ago, he knew that. It didn’t mean she was alive.

It didn’t even mean anything, except prove that Felix and Locus were bastards, and he was going to do everything that he could to hunt them down.

Then Wash realized that Jackie was flipping off the camera, and he started laughing hysterically.

“What do you think?” Kimball asked, looking at him, concerned.

“I think it doesn’t matter,” Wash managed. “And I think that I’m going to stop them, or die trying.”

“Try not to die Wash,” Kimball said. “There’s a lot of people that would miss you.” She took the pad back from him, and nodded at him stiffly.

* * *

Jackie was getting pretty good at categorizing who would hit her where.

Sharkface didn’t care where he hit her, which made him the most dangerous. He didn’t care if he’d break limbs or give her a concussion, and Jackie did her best to time it so that Locus (most likely) or Felix (if she hadn’t pissed him off in the last three days) would pull him off her. He was unpredictable; what made him stop hitting her and storm off some days would only make him hit her harder on others, and Jackie was left, more often than not, with extensive bruising that would take ages to fade.

Felix just wanted it to _hurt_. He was precise and methodical. He didn’t bother with her face, or even care if he left bruises. But whenever he lashed out, Jackie knew it would hurt for days, even if he hadn’t left a single mark on her. He’d only used the knives once–she’d really miscalculated that day. Luckily, Locus had intervened, only leaving Jackie with a large scar that ran along the length of her forearm.

And that was only when he was in the mood to actually hit her. Felix liked mind games and manipulation tactics just as much as she did.

Locus was the most predictable. She could tell exactly when he’d lash out, and usually could manage to minimize the damage. He always went for the face. The purpose wasn’t to hurt her, it was to make her _quiet_. Whenever he hit her, she pulled back. Planting the seeds of doubt in Locus was taking a lot of effort, and she didn’t want to overplay her hand. The fights she encouraged between him and Felix were one thing; if they ever realized what she was doing, Felix would probably just laugh it off. But if Locus realized that she was trying to manipulate him, she’d be dead. All of Locus’s patience would go out the window, and he’d stop holding Sharkface and Felix back. He might even kill her himself.

She couldn’t afford to make a mistake, not there. Felix and Sharkface, a screw-up meant the medic came to her cell and patched her up, or, worse case scenario, she ends up dead. A mistake with Locus would mean dying at best, and even more likely, undo everything she had tried to do.

Jackie wasn’t sure if she was going to get out of this alive. But she was certain that even if they killed her, she’d have done her fair share of damage to Charon.

* * *

When Felix showed up in her cell, dragging a struggling in with him, Jackie knew something was up.

It had been ages since Jackie had seen anyone else out of armor besides Price, and this person was bound hand and foot, with some sort of cloth stuffed in his mouth, muffling any of the noises he might make.

“What are you doing, Felix?” She got to her feet. This was new. She wasn’t sure what he was planning, and she didn’t like it.

“You know, I realized something the other day, Jackie!” Felix’s voice was poisonously sunny and cheerful. “I’ve been talking a big game about how I’m going to kill you, but I haven’t _shown_ you yet.”

Jackie took an involuntary step back, while the prisoner started thrashing desperately.

“So!” Felix flicked out his knife with a flourish. “I’ll play me, this guy plays you, and you play Wash, okay?”

“Felix—” Jackie tried to think of something— _anything_ —she could say to make him stop. But she couldn’t.

“That’s right, get into character,” Felix encouraged her, and then he drew the knife across the prisoner’s throat.

Blood went everywhere. Jackie gagged.

She barely made it to the sink before she vomited, her hair forming a protective curtain between her face and the sight of the body on the ground.

Felix grabbed her and spun her around to face him. “You’re not good with violence, are you Jackie?” His gloved hand grabbed her chin and made her look right at him. “Don’t worry,” he said, pushing her hair back from her face. “I’ll make it quick when it’s your turn.”

Jackie spat at him.

“Oh come on, you just puked, that’s disgusting!” Felix griped, wiping her spit off his visor. “Fine. I’ll make it slow and painful, if that’s what you want.”

“Go to hell,” Jackie said, shoulders still heaving slightly as she tried not to have a panic attack at the sight of the dead body on the floor of her cell.

He shook his head at her. “Jackie, I’m trying so _hard_ to play nice here. You really should appreciate it more.”

“Do you feel unappreciated, Felix?” Jackie asked, latching on to his words. “Do you think that Locus thinks he could do better without you?” Felix was _very_ still. She was onto something. “Or perhaps, is that what _you_ think?” Jackie said. “Do you need him more than he needs you?”

Felix _lunged_. Jackie let out a cry as he shoved her against the wall, a knife pressed up against the underside of her chin.

“I think you really should stop talking right now,” Felix murmured.

Oh, that was a sore spot alright. But she _might_ be very close to death right now. She let herself gag a bit as she looked over Felix’s shoulder and saw the pool of blood. She had to remind him of what he’d come here to do in the first place.

He glanced back, and saw the body. With a sigh, he tucked away the knife. “You know, I’ve heard someone say that hitting things is therapeutic.” He pulled his fist back and slammed it into Jackie’s face. She let out a cry of pain. “Let’s test that, shall we?”

Jackie tried to keep herself under control as she scrambled to think of a way out of this. Locus wouldn’t be near the cell for a while yet. She could risk trying to grab Price’s attention, but she was always wary of luring the other psychologist in here. There was a chance he might figure out what she was doing. As it was, he probably had a better idea than he was letting on, and just hadn’t decided to tell the others. Price was an enigma, and a worrying one at that.

But as Felix kicked her ribs, Jackie knew she’d have to risk it. Footsteps were coming, and she knew the difference between Price’s soft-soled shoes and everyone else’s armored boots by now.

She let out her best blood curling yelp, and, sure enough, the door opened.

Price looked at the mess on the floor, and then he said placidly. “I do hope you’ve arranged to have someone clean this up Felix.”

Felix let off kicking her to turn around. Jackie seriously considered trying to roll under the bed.

“Are you seriously going off about _hygiene_?” Felix demanded.

“You have made quite the mess, Felix,” Price said. “Shall I alert Jones that he’s on clean-up duty?”

Felix sighed. “Yeah, do that.” He threw a glance at Jackie, and sighed. “Well, that just killed the mood,” he snapped, and strode off.

Jackie and Price stared at each other, evaluating.

“You really should be more careful, Jackie,” Price said. “Felix has quite the temper.” He closed the door behind him, leaving Jackie alone with the dead body.

“I fucking know that, jackass,” Jackie muttered, climbing into bed and closing her eyes and trying to pretend she couldn’t smell the blood.

* * *

Carolina and Epsilon were the ones to figure out where they were keeping Wash’s sister.

Epsilon could _remember_ Jackie, that was the worst part. When they’d pulled him out of Wash, Epsilon had brought Wash’s memories in addition to his own. He remembered her laughing as she tried to convince her pet goose to attack, the way she’d complained bitterly when she’d gotten braces because she couldn’t eat corn on the cob.

And the thought of someone grabbing her and hurting her just to fuck with Wash made him _furious_. Omega was happy, at least.

It was hard to get close, especially since they didn’t even have backup. It was going to take a few days for anyone to get here. Normally, they’d go in themselves, but the place was very well fortified, heavily guarded, and they’d definitely need to have an extraction before they grabbed a captured civilian and ran away.

It didn’t take Epsilon very long to convince Carolina to let him sneak ahead and do some recon.

Infiltrating the systems was surprisingly easy; they weren’t looking for him, it seemed.

It didn’t take long to find Jackie’s cell.

And it didn’t take much longer for Omega to start roaring in rage, and the rest of Epsilon joined quickly.

Epsilon watched from the security camera, seething, as Locus and Jackie talked. Well. More like Jackie talked at Locus.

“It’s interesting, you know?” Jackie said. Locus, Church determined by taking a quick look around the servers, was on guard duty. Why the fuck did Jackie need _guard duty_?

A quick check inside of the memory banks answered that.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Epsilon asked himself.

Locus sighed. “What is?” Epsilon wondered how long it had taken for Locus to decide that it was better to respond to Jackie than just ignore her.

“You and Felix,” Jackie said.

Locus tensed up. “Don’t do this, Jackie,” Epsilon muttered anxiously.

“You’re both afraid of each other,” Jackie continued, as if somehow oblivious to the hostility radiating from Locus.

Sure enough, Locus lashed out, hitting Jackie right in the jaw. Jackie went down like a pile of bricks and stayed down.

Locus stood there, frozen for a moment, before storming out.

“What the fuck was that?” Epsilon jumped to the speakers, and Jackie froze on her way up, looking around wildly for the source of the noise.

“What the hell?” She stared at the speakers.

“Seriously! There’s no way you couldn’t have known he was going to hit you for that! What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Who are you?” Jackie demanded. “You the new guard on rotation or something?”

“Am I—wait, fuck, right. Introductions. I’m Church. I know your brothers. I’m here to help.”

She stared at him. “They found me?” She asked, and _ouch_ the bruise that was developing on her jaw looked like it hurt.

“Yeah, we found you, it’s just going to take a while to get you out of here so hold on, okay? Now seriously, what the fuck was that?”

She frowned at the speaker. “Are you taking care of the security feed?” She said suspiciously.

“Of course! Who the fuck do you think I am?”

“The guy named Church, who I’m pretty sure Frank told me about. Aren’t you a ghost or something?”

Epsilon paused. “Sort of.”

Jackie squinted at him. “And you know David?”

“Wash, yeah, I know Wash.”

“Is he here?” Jackie’s eyes were so fucking wide, Church hated to crush her.

“No. I’m with Agent Carolina.”

“Carolina?” She stared. “Price mentioned her.”

“ _Right_ , Price is here.” Church felt the familiar stir of anger. “But look, seriously, why the fuck are you pissing off Locus?”

“That wasn’t pissed off,” Jackie said absently, going to the sink. “That was hitting a nerve. When he’s mad, I get a concussion.”

“ _How are you still alive_?” Epsilon demanded.

Jackie snorted. “Luck. Plus, Felix thinks it’ll be nice and dramatic to kill me in front of David.”

Epsilon stared at her. “That is seriously messed up.”

“Oh, I know,” Jackie nodded. “You probably should go, the next shift should be coming soon.”

“Right. I’ll be back.” He left, and let the security feed loop back to normal.

He watched the feed from a distance though. Just to keep an eye on things.

* * *

“Wash!” Donut nearly ran right into him.

“Donut!” Wash caught his brother, keeping him upright. “What’s happened?”

“We got the call! We found her!”

“Who?” Wash barely let himself hope.

“Jackie! Church and Carolina found her!”

There was always going to be a part of Wash, no matter how many years passed, would immediately relax upon learning that Carolina was taking care of something.

“Is she alright? Have they gotten her out?”

Donut took off his helmet, and Wash could see the concern gnawing at him. “They can’t get her out yet; too many guards, and they need extraction.”

“When do we leave?” Wash said immediately.

“You don’t,” Kimball had found them.

“General—”

“If you leave, heading towards the location of your sister, do you really think they won’t notice?” Kimball demanded. “They’re keeping an eye on you, Wash. You’re going to stay here. The lieutenants have volunteered for this mission.”

Wash felt his jaw working, but he kept it tightly closed. She was _right_ , damn it. “Did Carolina know how she was?” He asked Donut, trying not to think about Jackie’s face as she turned off the camera.

“Church says she’s okay,” Donut said, bouncing slightly. “I’m sure they’ll have her out soon!”

Wash tried to steady himself. “Right. I’m sure.”

But when the shuttle left, and he wasn’t on it, he couldn’t help but feel like he was failing Jackie again.

He clenched his fists, and went back to work.

* * *

“You really should stop pissing them off,” the little blue light that was Epsilon surrounded the speaker, letting her know that it was safe. She found herself relaxing slightly, even though everything hurt.

“Nope,” Jackie said, wincing. Her arm might be broken. “Either I piss them off enough to kill me and they lose their leverage, or they beat me up enough that David can’t pretend they’ll just let me go when they put me on video again.”

“We’re going to get you out!” Epsilon yelped. “Stop trying to get yourself killed!”

“I’m not!” Jackie winced again. “I have it under control!”

“Your arm is _broken_!” Epsilon screeched. “Does your gene pool lack any survival instincts at _all_?”

“I think Mitch got them all,” Jackie muttered, checking her teeth with her tongue. “And I miscalculated. Shouldn’t have pushed him on his friends today.” Sharkface was the hardest to predict, because he came in looking for a fight, and provoking him caused him to leave as often as it made him mad enough to hit her. She had to provoke Locus and needle Felix, but even breathing wrong could send Sharkface lunging for her throat. The only reason he hadn’t killed her yet was because Felix had convinced him it would be better to do it in front of David.

Which, in Jackie’s mind, was completely unacceptable. David would never forgive himself if that happened.

“Fuck yeah you miscalculated! Wash is not going to be happy.”

“David can come get me first,” Jackie muttered, nursing her arm with a slight hiss as she made her way to the cot that they had provided for her bed.

“They’re coming okay?” Epsilon sounded reassuring and exasperated at the same time. “They just need a little longer. It’s just hard to get to you.”

“I know,” Jackie said, not calling him on his concern. She saved the psychoanalysis for her captors nowadays. No need to piss off the only friendly voice she’d heard in ages. “How long can you stay this time?”

“I’ve got half an hour before a random sweep picks me up.” Epsilon said. “So… twenty nine minutes and fifty nine seconds.”

Jackie managed a smile.

“I was telling you about the time that Wash—David, sorry—sprained his ankle while skateboarding on the spaceship, right?”

“Right,” she said. She closed her eyes, and listened as Epsilon began to tell her the story.

* * *

Her throat was sore—one of the guards had tried to shut her up by strangling her before his partner had pulled him off. The bruises were going to be impressive. Her arm still hadn’t healed—one of the guards had set the bones and put it in a sling—and her left eye was blackened from Locus punching her after she’d tried to talk to him about his relationship with Felix. Locus was twitchy nowadays, and he kept coming back so she could talk at him, even though he lashed out every time.

“ _Soon_ ,” Epsilon had promised her last night, but soon could mean anything.

Soon could, for example, mean right that second, as the door burst open and a figure in bright aqua armor appeared.

“Jackie, it’s us!” A tiny glowing projection that spoke with Epsilon’s familiar voice appeared over the woman’s shoulder. “Let’s go!”

Jackie scrambled to her feet, and followed.

“You’re Carolina, right?” She asked, sticking as close as she could to the soldier.

“That’s me.”

Jackie tried not to panic. She’d only been in these hallways when she was being dragged out for the cameras. It was all so strange and unfamiliar.  

Jackie hated it all—she couldn’t wait to get out of here.

They made it to the shuttle that Carolina had brought with her—she didn’t know any of the soldiers, and they didn’t know her. Their armor wasn’t the brightly colored ones that she knew Frank’s friends wore, instead being beige with colorful stripes.

As the ship took off, Jackie swayed on her feet, leaning against the wall to keep herself upright.

“I think I’m going to pass out now,” she informed the ship at large.

“Okay, that’s great, but how about you wait until we’re out of danger?” Epsilon said.

“We’re on a ship, going to a city on a planet where Felix and Locus are trying to commit genocide. I’m as safe here as I’m ever going to be,” Jackie informed Epsilon.

“She has a point,” Carolina said wryly, grabbing Jackie’s arm, intending to escort her to one of the seats. Jackie flinched without meaning to, and Carolina froze, withdrawing her hand from Jackie’s arm as if Jackie had burned her. “You should sit down,” she said quietly.

“Right,” Jackie muttered, not looking at Carolina. “Don’t need another head injury. David’s going to freak out enough as it is.”

“Oh yeah he is,” Epsilon muttered.

* * *

“Jackie!” The pink armored figure charged towards the shuttle. Armor might distort and hide so many things, but Jackie would know that voice anywhere.

“Frank,” she whispered, and she threw herself forward, not caring for her broken arm. Heavily armored arms wrapped around her, picking her up the ground, while Frank laughed, delighted.

“You’re okay! Church said you were but Wash was still worried, and Felix sent pictures, and _gosh_ you look awful!”

“Thanks Frank,” Jackie managed, laughing slightly.  

“Jackie,” the grey and yellow armored figure with her big brother’s voice was there, awkwardly hanging back, as if he wasn’t sure it was his place. As if he wasn’t sure he belonged here.

Jackie had tried not to think about what it meant, her brother being alive. That would have be a conversation for another day though, because he was _here_ , and they were both alive.

“Come here you idiot,” Jackie ordered, her eyes wet. Slowly, David moved forward, and Frank and Jackie lunged in unison to grab him.

“Your arm is broken!” Epsilon shrieked from the ship. “Go fucking take care of yourself, you can hug later!”

“Your arm is broken?” David pulled back immediately, sounding like the mother hen he’d always been.

“It happened last week, it’s fine,” Jackie said, trying to shrug it off.

“No it’s _not_!” Epsilon, Frank, and David chorused. Jackie laughed again, feeling oddly giddy at being near them again.

“Oh, you must be Jackie,” a woman in purple armor said. “I’m Doctor Grey, will you come with me please?”

Jackie froze, not liking the idea of being separated from everyone.

“Hey, I’ll come with you,” Epsilon said, flickering slightly before jumping over to her. “Otherwise you’ll probably manage to pick three fights between here and the medical wing.”

Jackie knew Epsilon would deny it if she thanked him, so she kept her mouth shut and swallowed her gratitude.

Doctor Grey seemed very nice, and chatted away, asking Jackie questions about all her old injuries. Jackie did her best to rattle off everything she could remember, which Grey took in stride, and made Epsilon flicker several times in anger.

“Hmm,” Grey said, covering her arm in plaster. “Alright, that’s done! We should probably get you to the armory soon, though.”

“Armory?” Jackie asked.

“We’re at war, sweetie!” Grey said sympathetically. “The only people not in armor are dead!”

Jackie grimaced. “I’m a _psychologist_ ,” she said.

“Oh, we know! Private Donut talked about you a lot. He and Agent Washington were _very_ worried about you.”

Jackie bit her lip. “Alright,” she said quietly. It was nice, the idea of being more protected.  

She left the med bay with Grey, only to walk pretty much right into David and Frank.

David had taken his armor off, and Jackie wanted to cry at the sight of her brother’s face. There were _so many scars_. And he had grey hairs.

There were other soldiers around, a virtual rainbow of armor.

She grabbed her best smile, and shoved down her desire to break down and cry. “Well, Davey?” She asked. “You going to introduce me to your friends?”

“ _Davey_?” The one in orange asked, delighted.

“You did that on purpose,” David said, throwing her a familiar glare.

Jackie laughed. “Younger sister’s prerogative,” she reminded him.

Frank jumped to his feet, and began to rattle off introductions, which Jackie was definitely going to be too tired to remember.

“Vanessa Kimball,” was the last one to be introduced.

“Ooh the famous Kimball,” Jackie said, lighting up. “It’s nice to meet you. Felix complained about you nearly as much as Tucker.”

“Yes!” The one that was apparently Tucker punched the air.

Jackie was wilting slowly. It was so… _strange_ being around so many people at once. The most she’d ever had in a room was three people besides herself.

Luckily, Epsilon seemed to notice. “You’re about to faint,” he accused her.

“Shut up, Epsilon,” Jackie muttered. “Your concern is showing.”

He spluttered, offended. “It is not!” He paused, realizing what he said, and kept spluttering as he tried to recover.

“Alright, why don’t we get her a cot in the medical wing while we look for something more permanent?” Kimball offered. It was a perfectly sensible offer. But Jackie couldn’t stop her flinch at the thought of being alone again.

David spotted it. “Why don’t you come back to my bunk, Jackie?” He said. “I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Jackie nodded slightly too quickly, and her brothers lead her to the small quarters they shared. “I’ll take the floor,” Franklin volunteered, beaming at her.

“You’re fine, Jackie,” David said quietly, holding her hand and squeezing it tightly. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

And it _was_. For the first time, the door opening wouldn’t mean the changing of the guard, and she’d eat food that wasn’t shoved under a door, and the people in armor around her wouldn’t punch her for mouthing off again.

She laughed slightly, which quickly devolved into hysterics. David froze for a second, before he reached for her, and Jackie threw her arms around him, sobbing into his chest.

Frank hugged her from behind, and Jackie fell asleep there, safe between her brothers.

* * *

Having Jackie back was so strange.

Jackie was regularly swept into informational meetings, because, as it turned out, she had sustained most of her injuries deliberately pissing off mercenaries in order to gather information.

“ _Jackie_!” He yelled when she finally admitted that.

“It worked,” Jackie said simply, squinting at the datapad she was holding. “I miss my glasses,” she grumbled.

“Where did they go?” Wash knew he was going to regret asking.

“I used them to stab a guard,” she said, matter-of-factly. “He broke them first, don’t worry.”

“Why did you stab the guard?” Wash felt his voice going embarrassingly high again.

“He was trying to strangle me,” Jackie said, chewing on the end of her stylus thoughtfully. She was terrible about wearing her helmet.  

“Do I want to know?” Wash asked, cradling his head in his hands.

“I embarrassed him by making him cry the previous shift,” Jackie made another note. “David, would you consider Locus’s depersonalization to be a coping method, or a guilt avoidance method?”

“ _Why_ did you make the guards cry?”

“I disrupted efficiency significantly,” Jackie said cheerfully, nodding to herself as she kept writing. “They would fight over who had to guard me.” She glanced up. “Stop it with the guilt complex,” she demanded. “It’s not your fault.”

“You were kidnapped because you’re my sister!”

“No, I was kidnapped because I lived in town, aren’t married to a paranoid former-special ops soldier, and I didn’t have a shelf of wrestling trophies, so I was an easy target.”

“Wait, Mitch’s wife is special ops?” Wash paused, distracted for a moment from his guilt.

“Former,” Jackie said with a shrug. “She didn’t like to talk about it, but I got her drunk before the wedding.” She sighed, setting down her tablet, and kicked him lightly. It had more effect than it would have yesterday, because Lopez and Donut had finally gotten around to giving her armor. It was so strange to see his younger sister in New Republic armor. She’d started making jokes about getting yellow and pink highlights. Wash was trying to talk her out of it, and prevent her from making those jokes in front of Donut. As it was, Sarge was planning on recruiting her to the Reds once she’d recovered enough.  

“Their fault, not yours. I’m a psychologist, I’m certified in this sort of thing,” Jackie said.

“And, apparently, goading Felix into breaking your arm so you can psychoanalyze him.”

“Oh no,” Jackie picked her tablet up again. “Sharkface broke my arm.”

Wash froze, fear flooding him at the idea of Sharkface meeting his baby sister. “ _What_?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention him? He really doesn’t like you, David.” She looked at him over her tablet, raising an eyebrow. “Did you really drop a building on him?”

“That was Tex,” he said automatically.

“Ahh, so projection of anger onto a survivor, combined with survivor’s guilt,” Jackie said thoughtfully, making another note.

“Jackie!”

“Saying my name over and over again doesn’t change the past, David,” Jackie said cheerfully.

“Were you _trying_ to die?” Wash demanded, grabbing her. “Jackie, Sharkface—”

Jackie’s face was pale. “Yes.” She said flatly. Wash recoiled. “I was. For a while. Felix was going to kill me in front of you, David. And you’d never forgive yourself if that happened.” Her chin jutted out stubbornly. “So yes. I pushed him—I pushed all of them. Better I died there than in front of you.”

“You stopped. Why?” Wash was having trouble breathing. He was remembering all of Jackie’s injuries again, the list that Grey had shown him easily when he asked.

“Epsilon found me,” she said simply. “He said he was going to get me out of there, that you knew where I was.”

“Jackie—” Wash was trying to get words. “Your life is more important than my _guilt_!” The idea that she nearly hadn’t made it home was terrifying—the idea that she’d come _so close_ to dying when she’d thrown everything away to try to warn him. “You should have played it _safe_ , Jackie!”

“And then what? They kill everyone on this planet, and then kill me anyway because I was a witness?” Jackie demanded. “David, they were always going to kill me! There wasn’t a way out, and I wanted to make sure that you didn’t have to deal with that!”

“No, I’d just have to deal with telling Mitch and Martha that I didn’t save you!” Wash yelled. “And that I had no idea what happened to you!”

“Felix told me what he was going to do, okay?” Jackie snapped. “I was _not_ about to let that happen! Better I die on my own terms than because some twisted fuck wanted to get you to cry!” She looked away. “I’m not sorry. Anything is better than that.” She got to her feet. “I think I’ll go give this to Doyle,” she said, not looking at him.

Wash got to his feet. Jackie didn’t like being left alone very much—Wash didn’t need a degree in psychology to see that.

“Let’s go then,” he said.  

They’d have plenty of time to talk about this later.

They had all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me over on [tumblr!](http://www.secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com)
> 
> Iz has drawn some things for this universe! Check them out [here](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/142747788355/secretlystephaniebrown-has-some-fun-donut-sibs) and [here!](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/142762835470/i-drew-more-donuts) She also made a neat edit for it, which can be found [here.](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/143277685445/some-quick-and-dirty-edits-for)


	2. Don’t Take This Sinner From Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash isn't the family member recruited into Project Freelancer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … I am sorry. 
> 
> This entry started with a conversation with Iz, as can be seen [here.](http://secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com/post/142707743069/how-would-donuts-sibs-play-out-of-mitch-was)
> 
> So! Second entry! Concept: Mitch is the family member who ends up a Freelancer. 
> 
> Iz has already doodled some things for this universe! Check them out [here](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/142747788355/secretlystephaniebrown-has-some-fun-donut-sibs) and [here!](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/142762835470/i-drew-more-donuts) She also made a neat edit for it, which can be found [here.](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/143277685445/some-quick-and-dirty-edits-for)
> 
>  **Warnings** : death, violence, torture, brainwashing, the Counselor being a douche.

Carolina walks into the room, curious. It’s been a while since they’ve had a new recruit, and she doesn’t know anything about this one.

The Agent is wearing charcoal colored armor. She’s tall with a slender build, and is leaning against the wall, as if she’s been waiting forever.

“This the rookie then?” South pushes past, eager to see.

“So they tell me,” the rookie’s voice is deep and amused.

“What’s your name?” North asks. He’s still taller than the newcomer, Carolina notices, smiling. So is she.  

“They’re telling me it’s Michigan now,” the agent says.

“They’re telling you?” York’s the one to ask that.

Michigan laughs brightly. “It’s all new. Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll catch up soon enough. So, which state are you?”

Carolina frowns, wondering if they really needed someone else on the team who doesn’t take anything seriously.

“I’m York. This is Carolina, she’s the squad leader. The two giants are North Dakota and Maine. That’s South, Connie’s hanging around somewhere. Wyoming and Florida are on mission right now, you’ll meet them later.”

Michigan laughs again as she turns to the Dakotas. “Guess we’re the Midwest contingent, huh?”

“Guess so,” North says, but Carolina knows he’s still gauging, trying to figure out what to think

“What’s your specialties?” Connie’s finally arrived.

Michigan tilts her head, examining Connie. “Knives. Midrange weapons. Heavy lifting. Tactics.”

Carolina frowns. “Tactics?”

Michigan shrugs. “Tactics and strategy. I’m a jack-of-all trades, you could say.”

And just like that, they have a new rookie.

* * *

Mitch is not born to be a soldier. Mitch has hands that look like they need to have dirt under their nails and muscles on her arms that only develop from a lifetime of milking cows. She’s tall and broad shouldered, but it’s a farmer’s build, not a soldier’s build.

Which is why everyone stares at the draft letter, horrified, when it comes.

Mitch goes. She washes the dirt out from under her nails and learns to sleep amongst the sound of a hundred other humans, rather than the soft noises of a farm. She learns to fight with knives and she learns to kill.

She learns to lead, she learns how to see the battlefield the same way that in most worlds she learns to herd and organize her family and her farm.

She’s nothing special, nothing notable, until her commanding officer tries to order her squad and four others on a suicide mission. A mission that Mitch can think of nine ways out of.

Mitch doesn’t even hesitate before slamming the officer’s head against the wall, knocking him out. She looks at the other squad leaders. “I can get us out of this,” she promises, and, amazingly, they _listen_.

They have losses, but most of them live, and Mitch holds out her hands as the cuffs go around them, and flashes the widest grin she can manage at the squads as the military police drag her away.

They’re alive. And that’s what matters.

She expects she’ll be court martialed. She expects prison. And then she’ll go back to the farm, she thinks, sitting in the cell, her hands attached to the table with a chain. She’ll bury her hands in dirt until she can’t see the blood anymore, and she’ll be _home_.

That’s when she meets Aiden Price, and he gives her an offer.

At first she doesn’t want to take it, wants to just go home, but then he mentions her brothers, and promises her he can ensure their safety if she just signs on the dotted line.

Sign away her name and her history, join a secret project. Help humanity. Save the universe.

She signs.

They call her Agent Michigan.  

* * *

Mitch doesn’t know what to think of the project. Everything is so… big. The armor is a thousand times better than anything she’s ever seen, and she’s never seen soldiers move like the Freelancers.

What she’s doing here, she’s not sure.

She goes on the first mission with them.

“This the rookie, huh?” The pilot is wearing silver armor, and is humorously short. 

“Michigan,” Mitch says. She longs to shorten it, but she _knows_ that this is a test. The Counselor is looking for a mistake, and she doesn’t want to give it to him. So she’ll live with Michigan, even if it still feels wrong in her mouth.

“Great, there’s more of you,” the pilot sniffs.

“Ah, c’mon Niner, don’t be rude to the rookie. She’ll think you mean it,” York jokes.

Mitch snorts. “If she’s dealing with you all day, can’t blame her for worrying, York.”

“Rookies are supposed to be scared and quiet, you know,” York grumbles.

Mitch snorts. “File a complaint then.”

Niner laughs. “I might like you.”

“I’m flattered,” Mitch says, grinning. “I get the impression that’s a big compliment.”

“Given the only thing she actually likes is her ship, I’d say that’s about right,” Carolina says wryly, walking up. 

Niner flips Carolina off. “Everyone here? Then all aboard.”

After the mission, Mitch leans against the door to the cockpit. “You’re great at this,” she observes.

“Hell yeah I am,” Niner says. Then she turns to face her. “Wait, was that a line?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Mitch says. “See you around, Niner.”

“Oh, it’s _on_!” Niner yells after her, and Mitch grins underneath her helmet.

* * *

“Hey Niner,” Michigan sidles up next to her.

“Michigan,” Niner tilts her helmet. “What are you doing here?”

Michigan is… odd. Tall. She has a tendency to make jokes and to take easy shots at her fellow Freelancers. She doesn’t scream when Niner pulls weirder maneuvers, and she likes to talk to Niner. Niner’s not sure what to think.

“Heard you just got back in,” Michigan said with a shrug. “Figured you might be hungry.”

“I know where the cafeteria is,” Niner snaps, but breaks off when Michigan holds up a fresh strawberry. “Where the hell did you get that? We’re on freeze dry for the rest of the month!”

“I have my ways,” Michigan says, grinning. “If you don’t want it…”

“Don’t you dare,” Niner says, slapping Michigan’s chest plate. “Give that here.”

Michigan laughs, and hands it to her.

“Why’d you give this to me?” Niner asks, cradling the precious berry in her hands.

“I guess I’m picking favorites,” Michigan says, and Niner doesn’t think she’s imagining the grin in her face.

“I’m eating this now,” Niner declares, taking off her helmet.

Michigan laughs, and takes off her own helmet. Sure enough, the grin is almost exactly like Niner imagined, wide and bright and warm. She’s younger than Niner expected, but there’s something in her eyes that catches Niner’s attention and holds it in place. Her hair is short and curly, and there’s a slight scar slashing across her cheek.

Michigan’s grin widens as she notices Niner staring. “Like what you see?” She teases, her voice going low.

“Don’t flatter yourself, I’m just amazed you can keep up that freckle collection in space,” Niner says, doing her best not to blush.

“Like I said,” Michigan leans in to whisper in Niner’s ear. “I have my ways. Enjoy.” She puts her helmet back on, and leaves the hanger with a spring in her step.

* * *

North is the one to point it out. They’re just coming back from a mission, and Michigan hangs back for a second.

North digs his elbow into South’s side. “I think our rookie has a thing for our charming pilot,” he says.

“What?” South cranes her neck to see what North is seeing, and the rest of them turn around too, curious to a fault.

Michigan is saying something, and Niner seems to be laughing. Michigan holds out her hand, and Niner grabs it, using it to leverage herself out of her chair.

“Holy shit,” York says. “Rookie moves fast. She’s only been here, what, two weeks?”

“How long before Niner makes her move?” South asks, clearly starting to run the numbers in her head. 

“Ah, c’mon,” York says. “I’m sure our rookie’s going to be the one to make the move.”

“Cute, York,” North says, shaking his head. “I’m with South on this one.”

Maine grunts. “Michigan,” he says.

“Well, it looks like there’s only one solution here,” York says, clapping his hands. “Let’s go get Connie, we’ve got a betting pool to start.”

South grins. “You’re going to be financing my next short leave,” she tells them.

“Ooh, what are we betting on?” Michigan asks, working her way between them.

They glance at each other. “How long it takes before York gets injured again on mission,” North says smoothly.

Michigan laughs. “I give it a week,” she says.

“I resent that!” York says. “I’m a perfectly capable agent, I’ll have you know.”

“Tell that to the _three_ alarms today,” Carolina says, digging her elbow into his side.

“What’s this, pick on York day?” He complains, but he laughs with the rest of them.

Later that night, when Michigan is on the training floor, they all place their bets.

* * *

“Holy shit,” York says, the first time Michigan’s helmet comes off, a month into her stint at Freelancer. “How old  _are_ you?”

Carolina has to admit, it’s almost off-putting how young Michigan looks. She has freckles coating her face and dark brown eyes, and there’s something positively youthful about her that Carolina can’t put her finger on.

Michigan raises an eyebrow at him, and her voice dips into a deep Southern drawl that wouldn’t have been out of place in Carolina’s hometown. “Didn’t your ma ever tell you not to ask a lady her age?” She as she takes the shot glass South shoves towards her.

“What the hell’s that accent?”

Michigan grins broadly. “I’m good at impressions.”

“Prove it,” Connie asks, eyes bright. She’s terrible at holding her alcohol, and three shots in, her sense of humor’s coming out strong.

Michigan leans in close. “Knock knock?” The accent is terrible and all too accurate, and it sends South into stitches, causing her to spill the whiskey she’s pouring.

Connie pushes her, snorting. Michigan laughs, warm and full and bright.

“No but really,” York nudges her. “How the hell are you such a mom when you’ve got a baby face like that?”

“None of your business,” Michigan says, shoving him away with a smile. “Plus, I thought North was team mom?”

“I’m willing to share the title,” North says, amused. He’s nursing his single beer, and watching everything with his careful gaze. “It’s a full time job.”

Michigan snorts.

“Hey Mitch, you going to drink or what?” South demands, bored. She shoves a drink towards Michigan, who picks it up and sniffs it.  

Michigan raises her eyebrow again. “Mitch, huh?” She throws back her drink easily. Carolina thinks there’s something strange in her tone. Something soft—nostalgia, maybe.  

“Michigan’s too long,” South says. “Time you had a nickname.”

Mitch’s smile is bright. “If you say so, South.”

* * *

Niner can’t figure out where Michigan keeps getting fresh fruit—usually  _she’s_ the source of all contraband on this ship. But it keeps happening. Michigan shows up with some sort of fruit. A tomato. A strawberry. Raspberries. Blueberries.

And the flirting is getting out of control. The helmet always comes off, and she likes to get close and into Niner’s space, enough to fluster her, leaving before Niner has time to recover. 

Well, Niner’s had it. It’s time to put a stop to this, once and for all.

Michigan—Mitch, that’s what they’re calling her now, and it suits her—comes by, a bright, shining apple in one hand, her helmet tucked under the other arm.

“Brought you a little something,” Mitch says, tossing the apple. Niner catches it neatly. Her helmet is already off, ready for this.

She sets the apple down carefully, and when Mitch moves in, probably to brush Niner’s hair out of her eyes or something similar, Niner takes a rare moment to use her strength, pushing Mitch against the wall. Mitch’s eyes widen for a moment in shock.

“You ever going to make a move, Michigan? I’m getting tired of waiting,” Niner says. Mitch is taller than Mitch by a decent amount, but Niner isn’t about to let that stop her.  

Mitch’s brown eyes gleam brightly. “Didn’t want to rush you,” she says, her voice deep and rough. There’s a slow smile on her face, softer than her normal flirtatious grin. Somehow, Niner can’t help but feel like Mitch just won a victory.

“You’re an ass,” Niner snaps, before reaching up to grab Mitch’s head and pulling her into a kiss, still keeping Mitch pinned against the wall the whole time. Mitch doesn’t hesitate for a moment, wrapping her arms around Niner’s waist, lifting her up onto her tiptoes to make the kiss easier.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” Mitch says when they finally pull apart, breathing heavily. She still has that ridiculous smile on her face, and Niner wonders if she’s just played right into Mitch’s hands. Not that she minds, but still. She needs to figure out just how sneaky her new… something… is.

“Shut up,” Niner says, but she’s smiling, and the words aren’t as harsh as they usually are. “Have dinner with me?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Mitch kisses her again, softly cupping Niner’s face in her hands before pulling away with a smirk. “Should have started with the apples, huh?”

Niner rolls her eyes, and grabs her helmet. And the apple. For good measure.

* * *

Drinking after a good mission is an old habit, and it’s a good one. Florida joins them this time, and Wyoming too. Some classic twenty-first century movie is playing in the background, while South tries to heckle Mitch into doing shots with her.

“C’mon, you look like you can handle your alcohol, rookie,” South says, dangling the shot glass, filled with a toxically colorful liquor, between her fingers.

“You hitting on my girlfriend, Dakota?” Niner walks in with another bottle, and all eyes turn to her, shocked.

“ _What_ ,” York’s the one to whisper it.

“Hadn’t realized we were telling people yet, babe,” Mitch says, and Niner rolls her eyes.

“There are no fucking secrets on this ship,” Niner says, before she sits down in Michigan’s lap without ceremony. Michigan is tall and broad shouldered, and Niner is slim and average sized. It’s almost hilarious to see.

“If you say so,” Mitch says, finally taking the shot glass from South, who’s grinning like she just won an entire pot of winnings (she has).

“Congratulations, you two!” Florida says, a gleam in his eyes as he leans against Wyoming’s shoulder.

Mitch laughs. “Thanks Florida,” she says before kissing Niner quickly.

“Oh god, you two are going to be _that couple_ , aren’t you?” North grins. Maine grunts in agreement, but he’s probably just sore because he had money on them not getting together for another month.

“Looks like we’ve got competition, ‘Lina,” York says, hooking his arms around her waist, pulling her against his chest. Carolina smiles, and lets him.

* * *

Everything changes, of course, when Agent Texas arrives.

* * *

Mitch howls with joy as she and Texas land in the pelican. “Nice catch, babe!”

Niner just laughs from the front.

Texas throws her a look.

“What?” Mitch says with a grin. “It’s important to enjoy what you do!”

Texas mutters something that’s distinctly, “ _rookies_ ”.

Mitch smirks. “Because you’ll probably kick my ass, I won’t point out that technically, you’re the rookie.”

Texas throws her another look before she jumps out of the plane.

“Good talk!” Mitch yells after her.

* * *

“Agent Michigan?” Mitch blinks, surprised, as Sigma appears in front of her while she’s cleaning out her locker.  

“Yes Sigma?” Mitch glances at Maine, but Maine’s busy cleaning his weapon, and isn’t looking at her. Whatever Sigma has to say, it’s not for Maine.

She’s not used to being talked to directly by an AI. She talks to them, sure—Theta reminds her of David when they were kids, and Delta and she gang up on York sometimes, but they never seek her out.

But then again, Sigma has always struck her as different.

“I have a question,” he says. “About your relationship with the pilot. Four Seven Niner.”

Mitch freezes slightly. She and Niner are fairly open about it with the team, sure, but she knows that Sigma talks to the Counsellor a lot. And, strictly speaking, it’s against the rules. And Mitch might not have joined Freelancer with a smile on her face, but the idea of being kicked out doesn’t sit well in her stomach right now. Not when she’s finally found somewhere that she fits.

“What about it?”

“Isn’t it a liability?” He asks. “To depend on someone like that? Doesn’t it make you weak?”

Mitch frowns at him. “I guess,” she says. “But it gives you something to fight for. Gives you something to come home to.”

“But do not platonic bonds provide those same qualities?” Sigma says. “And without the dangers of a court martial?”

“Different needs, I guess,” Mitch says.

“Are there risks? Since you do not seem to think it is a liability?”

“Anything can be a liability, Sig,” she says, closing her locker. “The way I see it, you just have to be sure you know about it.” She pauses. “But yeah, there are risks. When you open yourself up to someone like that… losing them can be difficult. Can break you. I’ve seen it happen. It’s never pretty.”

“I see,” Sigma sounds pensive. “Thank you, Agent Michigan. This was… informative. And helpful.”

Mitch frowns at that. “Helpful? With what?”

But Sigma is gone.

* * *

Texas can usually be fairly certain that, when she’s on the training floor, she’s going to be alone.

Which is why she’s shocked when Michigan pops up in the middle of her training.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tex snaps. “You lose a bet, have to hang out with the scary Texas?”

Michigan’s body language makes it pretty clear she wants to laugh. “Pretty sure being scared of you is just plain common sense, Texas,” she observes.

“Then why are you still talking?” Tex asks.

Michigan is odd. Young. Cheerful. She flaunts her relationship with the pilot as if it isn’t against half a dozen regulations, she fusses over people like a mother, and she still keeps her head cool in a crisis.

Tex doesn’t know what to make of her. Doesn’t know why the team rookie sought her out. Everyone else is content to let her be—some of them blame her for York, some blame her for CT, others just don’t trust her. But Michigan doesn’t seem to care.

Michigan tilts her head. “Way I figure it, there’s a lot of things to be scared of on this ship. No point in avoiding them just because they might punch you in the face.”

“Only might?” Tex asks.

“I’m banking on you finding me funny I guess,” Michigan sounds like she wants to laugh.

Tex rolls her eyes and takes a swing. There’s a slight blur, and Michigan dodges it. Tex stares. Her punches don’t miss.

“Reflex enhancer,” Michigan says, and oh, now she’s definitely laughing. “Good for a knife fighter.”

Tex stares at her, considering. “What do you want, Michigan?”

“Just trying to figure you out,” Michigan says with a shrug. “You’re the best, but you’re never sent with us on missions. You just show up anyways. You have the invisibility, but you’re not an infiltrator like York or—” She cuts herself off before she says Connecticut. “Anyways. It’s interesting.”

“I’m not a puzzle,” Tex snarls, Omega flaring up in her mind, suggesting how to kill her. < _Crush the windpipe, stop her talking, take her precious knives, cut her from chin to stomach— >_

 _< Shut up,> _she snaps at him. < _I’ve got this._ >

< _Kill her_ ,> he says, almost sulkily, before going quiet.

“’course you’re not,” Tex blinks as a faint accent appears, one she can’t place. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not an odd one, Texas.”

“Take your curiosity and shove it,” Tex snaps. “If you’re smart, you’d stay away from me.”

Michigan shrugs. “No one ever said I was smart, but fine. Enjoy being your broody badass loner self. Just know that if you get bored, I’ve got access to some great whiskey.”

Tex rolls her eyes, and stalks off.

She doesn’t even know if she likes whiskey.

* * *

Everyone stares as they come back to base to see two cakes sitting in the middle of the room.

“What the hell?” North asks. Theta flickers into view.

“Is it someone’s birthday?” He asks, sounding puzzled.

“Got it in one, Theta,” Mitch says, and they all turn to stare. She’s grinning widely, a knife dangling between her fingers.

“Happy Birthday, Dakotas,” she says with a smirk.

“Who the fuck told you?” South demands.

Mitch grins. “I have my ways,” she says, sing-song.

“You’re a fucking sneaky asshole, aren’t you?” South demands.

Mitch holds out the knife. “Yours is chocolate.”

“Fuck you,” South says, but she grabs the knife and goes for the one that, sure enough, says SOUTH in bright purple frosting. North looks at Mitch long and hard, then he turns to Theta.

“Did you tell her?”

“Nope!” Theta says, although he looks very intrigued by the cake. “What flavor did she make for you?”

“Guess we’ll find out,” North says, looking at the knife Mitch is offering him.

“Seriously? How many knives do you have on you right now? You’re out of armor!” York complains, taking his helmet off and trying to steal a slice of South’s cake.

Mitch grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Rookies aren’t allowed to be scary, Michigan,” York says, pointing at her.

Mitch just grins again, and produces a third knife, which she flips in her hand.

“What’s the point of the cake?” Carolina asks, cornering Mitch afterwards.

Mitch pauses, blinking in surprise. Her helmet is off, and Carolina narrows her eyes, curious.

“Birthdays are important,” Mitch says cheerfully. “And I like to bake.”

“And you made two of them.”

“The twins share enough things,” Mitch shrugs. “No need to encourage the sibling rivalry more.”

“So why haven’t you told us your birthday, if they’re so important?” Carolina asks.

Mitch smirks at her, shaking her head. “Half the fun’s figuring it out. And seeing their faces when they realize I know.”  

“You’re going to get in trouble one of these days, Mitch,” Carolina says. “That’s all supposed to be classified.” Freelancers don’t have lives before Freelancer, or at least, they’re not supposed to. They all break it in some way, but Mitch usually is good about it. None of them know Mitch’s real name, or where she’s from, or anything about her service record before Freelancer. Why she’s willing to step out over something like birthdays is just… odd.

“Ah, you’re sounding like North,” Mitch laughs, hands on her hips. “Don’t worry, Carolina. I’ve already found yours.”

Carolina glares at her. “If you—”

“I already told York,” she says, sing-song. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave the cake baking to him.”

Carolina lunges, pulling their rookie into a headlock. Mitch laughs, not even fighting it. “You’ll have to tell him your favorite flavor though,” she says. “Couldn’t figure that one out.”

“You’re a little shit,” Carolina says.

Mitch laughs again. “Been a while since someone’s called me little,” she observes.  

“I’m still taller than you,” Carolina points out.

Mitch sniffs, twisting out of Carolina’s grip. “By like, half an inch!”

Carolina shoves her. “You’re lucky Niner likes you,” she says.

“What, and you don’t?” Mitch grins. “Don’t lie, I’ve won you over. Me and my girlish charm.” She slings an arm over Carolina’s shoulder, and Carolina tenses for a moment, before letting it stay.

Sometimes it feels like everything’s falling apart, Carolina thinks, as she leans against Mitch. But there are still moments like this, where her family is all together, and she thinks they’ll be okay.

* * *

“They’re implanting me tomorrow,” Mitch says. Niner stirs in her arms.

Niner’s lucky enough to have her own private quarters, and lately, Mitch has been spending more time there than in the rooms she shares with Carolina.

“Already? I thought South was next.”

“So did I,” Mitch says, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “But apparently not.”

Niner touches her face. “Hey. It’ll be fine.” Her voice is soft, and Mitch laughs, kissing her quickly before pulling away. She starts hunting for her armor pieces, scattered as they are all over the floor.

“I know. But still. I’m not too keen about something fiddling around in my brain.”

“Which unit are you getting?” Niner asks, sitting up to watch her girlfriend get dressed.

“Epsilon,” Mitch says, starting to put her armor on. “Should be good.”

“You getting an enhancement to go with that thing?” Niner asks. “Or you just sticking with that reflex enhancer thing?”

“Strength booster,” Mitch grins. “I’ll be able to bench press a _tank_.”

“You better not press my ship,” Niner threatens her. Mitch laughs.

“I value my life, so no thanks. I’ll stick to tanks.” Her gloves go on. She hesitates before putting on her helmet, and she kisses Niner deeply, as if a part of her knows that it will be a long time before she can do that again.

“I love you Andi,” Mitch whispers, breathily. “Marry me when we get out of here?”

Niner grins, pushing Mitch’s hair out of her face. “I’ll think about it. You really need to be going. You’re going to be late.”

Mitch walks out the door, and she doesn’t even think to look back. Why would she? There haven’t been implantation problems before—nothing more than small bumps in the road.

She doesn’t know she won’t see Andi face to face again for years. She says, “Epsilon,” with no bitterness and no pain, and it’s just a name.

Then they put Epsilon in her brain, and Mitch screams so loud the whole ship hears it.

Niner comes running when South tells her, but she doesn’t have clearance to go inside, so she just stands outside the door, hands clenched into fists.

“How long have you been standing there?” Texas asks.

“Don’t know,” Niner says shortly.

“Has she woken up yet?”

Niner blinks, surprised. “No.”

“She will,” Tex says.

“They pulled Epsilon,” Niner says. “They’ve never had to do that before.” She leans her helmet against the glass. “I didn’t even tell her yes,” she said. “She asked me to marry her, and I—I didn’t say _yes_. Didn’t even say I loved her back.”

Texas, apparently, can look awkward as hell, even while wearing her helmet. “She’ll wake up,” she offers, as if she doesn’t have anything else to say.

“Carolina hasn’t yet,” Niner said. “Whatever the fuck they’re doing with the AI, they better stop before anyone else gets hurt.”

“Let me know when she wakes up,” Tex says.

“Yeah. Sure,” Niner replies, not taking her eyes off Mitch.

* * *

The others are gone.

Carolina and Florida are dead. York and North and South and Wyoming and Texas ran. Maine killed Carolina. They won’t tell her where Niner is.

Mitch pretends that she doesn’t feel anything when they rattle off the list. AWOL. MIA. KIA. And then there’s her. Section Twelve.  

Inside she rages like a storm, because they _left her_. She doesn’t even know why they ran; what they found out or what they saw. They tell her that they ran to protect their AI but then why did South run? She wouldn’t give a damn. There’s so many fucking holes, and half of them seem to be in her own head.

Epsilon showed her the truth. She sees the dirty lies beneath the surface, the paint peeled away to show the rotten core. She knows there’s nowhere to go, that her family thinks she’s dead, that the messages she’s been receiving for years, those brief but savored letters from home are faked. She knows that she’s spent years killing and bleeding for a man who doesn’t give a damn about anyone except the shadow of a long-dead woman, including his own _daughter_. She knows that the people she would have died for left her behind. She knows too much, and she burns with that knowledge.

Eventually, they realize they need her in the field more than they need to keep her locked away and quiet.

They give her a job. Recovery One. They give her the armor back and her enhancements and they ask her if she wants an AI and when she reacts with horror, she sees the satisfaction on the Counselor’s face and she promises herself that she will make him pay.

She’ll make them all pay.

If she’d been asked, before Epsilon, before the program, if she was one to hold a grudge, she’d have laughed and said no.

Well.

Freelancer was always supposed to teach her new things.

And like she told Carolina, back when she first joined the program, she catches on quickly.  

* * *

Mitch practices what she’ll say in the rare quiet moments she manages to find as Recovery One. 

“You _left me_ ,” she’ll say to York.

“I thought we were family,” she’ll say to North.

“Did you hate me that much for getting Epsilon?” She’ll ask South.

She doesn’t practice what to say for Texas. With Tex, the only practice she’ll need is with her fists instead of her words. _Allison_ , the ghost of Epsilon whispers in her mind. _Allison_. She shoves those thoughts to the back of her head and keeps going.

She listens to Niner’s voice, and they both pretend it doesn’t hurt, isn’t tearing them apart to be separated and unable to actually talk, their conversations monitored and recorded and both of them under observation at all times.

She never gets to give her speeches, never gets her answers. She finds York’s body, and loots Delta and the healing unit from it, and she burns it until there’s nothing but ash and a scorch mark on the steel of the wall.

North is dead when she gets there, and Theta and the bubble shield with it, but South is alive, and Niner says _kill_ , and Mitch has to choose, and she chooses quickly.

She pins South to the ground and presses the gun against South’s helmet. “I should kill you right now for leaving me there,” she hisses. “I’m supposed to. But lucky for you, I _really_ need backup right now.”

“Doesn’t seem like you’re doing too bad for yourself, Mitch,” South taunts, unintimidated by the gun or by Mitch. “How’s your girl?”

Mitch glowers, but lets South to her feet. “Here,” she says, holding out Delta’s chip. She sees how South freezes, and she wonders if she’s about to make a mistake.

“Is that—”

“Delta,” she says. “I’m not going to implant him. Might as well get some use out of him.”

South cradles the chip almost reverently. “Didn’t expect this,” she says, quietly, turning it over in her hands.

“Yeah, great. I’ve got a lead on Maine. We need to get going,” Mitch says, jerking her head.

“Don’t act like such a hardass, Mitch. I was there when Carolina caught you and Niner making out in the broom closet.”

“That was a long time ago,” Mitch says flatly. “Things change.”

Things really do change.

They track down the Meta, and Mitch takes a bullet to her shoulder, and then South shoots her in the back and leaves her to bleed out on the ground.

The Meta leaves her. She only has a reflex enhancer, that’s what he thinks, why bother with her? He doesn’t know about York’s healing unit, pumping out biofoam and keeping her alive.

He stands over her, watching, and she keeps her eyes on him from under the helmet, not daring to breathe. _Maine_ , she wants to scream. But she doesn’t, because she knows that it’s not her old friend in there.

When he leaves, she calls command. “Niner?” She croaks. “Niner?” She never calls Niner by that name over the comms; it’s against the rules. But she might be dying, and she’s not about to die calling Niner _Command_. She can barely stop herself from calling her _Andi_.

“Mitch!” There’s a rough edge to Niner’s voice, like she’s been crying. “Mitch, you’re alive!”

“Yeah,” she whispers, her eyes struggling to stay open. “I am.”

* * *

They send her to collect one Private Caboose, and he tells her they need another Simulation Trooper named Church.

The name is just one of her thousands of ghosts at this point, so she ignores it. She starts to lead him away from base when she hears shouts behind her.

“Excuse me! Sir!” The voice is straight out of her nightmares—or maybe her dreams, there’s almost no difference at this point. She turns around, and she stares as a Blue soldier in bright cobalt armor with yellow highlights approaches her, clutching something in his hands. “Sir! I know you’re in a hurry, but Caboose _really_ will need these pills—”

“David?” She blurts, unthinking, rattled to her core by the voice.

That voice means _home_. It means the willow tree in the front yard and the swing set in the back yard and the smell of the farm and the taste of tomatoes fresh from the garden and the feeling of dirt beneath her nails. That voice shouldn’t be here. She doesn’t have any right to hear that voice anymore.

He straightens slightly. “Private David—wait, _Mitch_?”

He recognizes her. It’s been years, and she’s wearing armor but he knows her, just like she knows him, and she wants to scream, because there’s no way that this slipped through the cracks of Freelancer. She prays that Niner doesn’t know about this, that this betrayal is all the Counselor’s. After South, Mitch can’t help but doubt everything Niner says in her ear, even after the whispered apologies as she lay on the ground, bleeding out.

Then she remembers that Niner wouldn’t know. Niner doesn’t know her last name. She breathes easier.

“Wash! This is Agent Michigan! She is another Freelancer!” Caboose says, oblivious to the way that the two of them are standing, frozen in their memories.

“Agent—” He stares at her.

“Caboose,” Mitch says, not taking her eyes off her brother, trying to ignore the hammering of her heart in her chest. “Was… Wash, you said? Was he with you when you had the encounter with the Omega AI?”

“Yes!” Caboose says.

“Good,” she says, dully. “I’ll go tell your superior officer that you’ll be accompanying us.”

“Mitch!” He grabs her arm. “Mitch, what’s going on? You’re supposed to be _dead_!”

“Later,” she tells him. “Later.” She pulls away.

He’s a _Sim Trooper_. She’d signed up for the fucking program in order to keep him safe, and that’s where the Counselor had put him? In the middle of a war zone, where Freelancers would come and go, leaving high death counts in their wake?

Anger pushes through her numbness, and she doesn’t even listen to the commander’s complaints, because it seems that David is actually a good soldier, but she ignores it, and stalks off, and takes the two of them with her on her way to find Private Church.

She doesn’t talk to David until they stop for the night. Then, hesitatingly, she takes off her helmet, and he does the same.

He looks older. Of course he does, she thinks hysterically. It’s been years. She wonders what he sees when he looks at her.

“It’s really you,” he says, staring at her. “What the hell happened?”

She tries to smile, but it feels awkward on her face. “Joined the army,” she says, and he reaches for her, clearly intending to hug her, but she shies away. She needs to keep him alive. The Meta might be anywhere, and she needs to focus.

“Mitch, I’m serious!” He says, hands falling to his sides. “They told us you were dead!”

Mitch fiddles with her helmet. “Protocol for joining Project Freelancer,” she says. “In order to ensure that our activities remained classified, we are declared MIA or KIA.”

“So you just… let us think you were dead? For years?” David demands.

“You don’t just leave Freelancer, David,” she says, tiredly. She doesn’t— _can’t_ —explain Epsilon to him. Can’t explain that she has all of their secrets in her head and she’s just looking for the weapon to raze it all to the ground.

His face gets a pinched look. He’s angry at her, but he doesn’t want to say it.

“Where’s… what name is he using now?” Mitch says. Her little brother hadn’t picked a name by the time she’d joined Freelancer.

“Frank,” David supplies. “He… he goes by Donut now.”

“And you go by Wash,” she says.

Wash shrugs. “It’s an old joke of Church’s. It stuck. His nicknames usually do.”

“Where is Frank?” Mitch asks, worry clawing at her stomach.

“He’s on assignment right now. Classified. He and Tucker. I’m sure they’re fine,” David says, and Mitch nods, accepting. “He was on Red Team in our canyon. Joined the wrong army by mistake.”

 _No_ , she wants to correct him. _They put him in the other army as one of their fucking experiments_. But she doesn’t say it, doesn’t tell him that everything he’s fought for is a lie, because there’s been enough of that for one day.

“Sounds like him,” is all she says instead. And then she puts her helmet back on, and waits for David to go to sleep so she can keep watch.

* * *

South is bleeding on the ground, and Mitch stares down at her, trying to act like she isn’t at war with herself.

Caboose takes Delta. Good. She doesn’t want an AI anywhere near her brother. She keeps her pistol loaded and aimed at South, her heart rate surprisingly steady.

“Let’s get going,” she says. She’ll call Niner, let her take care of South. And if South bleeds out, well, then Mitch won’t complain.

“I can’t—I can't walk on my own,” South says.

Mitch turns around again. “Do I really look like I care? I’ll call Command, let them take care of you. _Recovery Two_.”

South glares up at her. “Guess you and Niner are on better terms than I thought,” she says, and Mitch can almost exactly picture the sneer on her face. “The two of you are pathetic—”

Mitch raises her gun. “Leave her out of this,” she says quietly.

“Agent Michigan, if I may,” Delta says, and hearing his voice without York being nearby is still wrong on so many levels.  “Before you arrived, South attempted to turn me over to the Meta to save herself.”

Mitch turns her head back to South slowly. “Is that so?”

“Much like she wounded you to escape in our previous encounter with it. And, as I have learned in our travels, her brother North suffered a similar fate.”

Mitch stares at South. “Seriously?” She asks, feeling cold inside. South glares at her, and doesn’t deny it.

“It is highly probable that she will turn on us again soon, and in her current physical state, she will only hamper our progress,” Delta says. And his words make so much sense, and Mitch’s stomach twists, remembering how South had played her, how she’d talked about being a twin and participated in what essentially was a _psyche eval_.

“What are you suggesting, Delta?” Mitch asks, but she’s already thumbing the safety of her gun thoughtfully.

“...That we do not allow her to hamper our progress,” Delta says, and Mitch wonders if the AI has always been that cold, or if York’s death has affected him.

“You make a good argument, Delta,” she says, raising her pistol.

“Oh, c’mon Mitch,” South says, leaning against the nearby wall for support. “What are you going to do, shoot—”

“Mitch, _no_!” David lunges for her arm, derailing her aim. “Are you kidding me?”

Mitch wants to scream.

“What, you let Sim Troopers boss you around now, Michigan?” South taunts her.

“Do you fucking want to die, lady?” Church demands, while Wash keeps between Mitch and South as best he can.

“Get out of my way, David,” she says, gritting her teeth.

“And let you just kill her? She’s not the enemy, Mitch!”

“Yes she is!” Mitch yells, furious. “Did you listen to a single thing Delta said?”

“This isn’t you, Mitch!” David isn’t touching her, which is smart, because Mitch thinks she might actually hurt him if he tries. “Mitch, you didn’t even want to be in this army because you didn’t want to kill people!”

“And I grew up!” Mitch snaps. “I didn’t sit in a canyon and watch people through sniper rifles, David! You don’t have a single clue the things I’ve seen, or the things I’ve done, and you _don’t know me_.”

David stares at her. “Mitch. _Please_.”

“Get out of my way.”

Slowly, he does.

Mitch aims her pistol. She hears David inhale sharply.

The bullet ricochets off the boulder next to South’s head, and South flinches. “There. Agent South Dakota is killed in action,” she says coldly. “If I ever see you again, the next one goes through your forehead.”

“You’re letting me live because a fucking _Sim Trooper_ guilt tripped you?” South says, incredulous.

“I’m letting you live because my big brother asked,” Mitch snaps. South freezes. “Think about _that_ , South.”

She turns to the others. “Let’s get out of here,” she says. “I’ll need to think of a plausible excuse for command.”

“Just tell them Caboose killed her,” David says, but he’s looking at her differently. Like he’s just realized for the first time that she’s dangerous. He should have come to that conclusion already, she thinks bitterly. She’s the last Freelance alive—besides Maine, but Sigma’s taken care of that in all the ways that matter—for a reason. “They’ve got a shortcut for it and everything.”

Mitch glances at the regulation blue soldier, who seems to be intrigued by a butterfly. But she remembers the way that the commander back at Rat’s Nest acted and that terrible grenade throw. “Alright then,” she says. As they walk away, she makes the cal.  

She doesn’t look back.

* * *

“And who are you? Another fucking Freelancer?” The orange one demands, and Mitch is considering shooting him—maybe shooting all of them. They had been  _so close_ . She’d nearly ended this living nightmare; nearly avenged Carolina, nearly avenged North, nearly been able to  _rest_ , but no. Mitch has no patience for Red versus Blue shenanigans normally, but right now she’s feeling a lot of sympathy towards the Blue Team.

“Calm down!” Wash says. “Guys, this is Agent Michigan. My sister.”

The Reds all look at each other, and then look at her. “Seriously? How many people are in your family?” The orange one asks, and, okay, Mitch is seriously going to shoot him.

“Seriously, the terrifying Freelancer is related to _Donut_?” The maroon one asks. “Did he get dropped on his head as a kid or something?”

Mitch clenches her jaw and reminds herself that Frank would probably not appreciate her defending his honor by pistol-whipping his friend. Maybe he doesn’t like one of them. She’ll have to ask David.

“We don’t have time for this,” she snaps. “You three just interrupted a _real_ military operation, and let the Meta get away! Now we have no idea where he’s headed, and on top of that—” She breaks off, turning to David and Church, who seem to have the same thought as she has. “Caboose!”

* * *

“What the fuck,” she yells, pointing her gun at the figure. It’s transparent, almost like an AI, but it’s big and white and—and it’s  _Church_ .

“I’m a ghost,” he says, and Mitch wants to laugh, because it was staring her in the face the whole time. The voice, the _name_ , the vitriol with which he talks about Freelancer, the way he only agreed to come with her when she mentioned Tex… how could it be anyone else?

She’s found the Alpha. And she has no idea what to do next.

“He says, ‘memory is the key’,” and Mitch freezes, because all the pieces fall into place, and she smiles, wild and uncontrolled behind her helmet, and she knows exactly what she needs to do now.

Epsilon’s alive, and for the first time in a very long while, Mitch thinks there’s a flare of hope inside of her chest.

* * *

“Where the hell are we going?” Church demands, as Michigan quickly takes a sharp right turn.

“Making sure of something,” Michigan says, stopping at a locked door. Church shifts his eyes, looking behind them.

“I thought you said we were going straight to the vault!” He hisses.

“I lied,” Michigan says simply, punching a code into a keypad. “We have this one detour.” The door slides open.

“What the hell are you doing here, this is a restricted— _Mitch_?”

Church squints at the seated woman, who’s sitting in front of a massive computer bank.

“Niner,” Michigan breathes, and Church has never heard her like this before. Even when she was dealing with Wash, she didn’t sound like this. This is… different. And weird.

And then Michigan is racing across the room, and the two of them are pulling each other into one of the weirdest hugs he’s ever seen, and he’s been on the receiving end of a Blue Team group hug.  

“What the _hell_?” He says to the world at large.

Michigan pulls off her helmet for only the second time that Church has seen, and the other woman quickly does the same.

“What are you doing?” Niner says, holding Michigan’s hand.

“Finishing what I should have done ages ago,” she says. “Get to Central, I—there’s some people you’ll want to meet there. I’ve got to get to the AI storage.”

Niner looks at her, and Church wonders why she looks so familiar. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen her before in his life.

“Be careful,” Niner says, and then—holy shit, kissing. Church scowls.

“Aren’t we in a hurry?” He yells.

“I love you,” Michigan whispers, so quiet that Church almost misses it. “C’mon Church.”

“What, as if you were waiting on me? Oh, that’s just fucking rich.”

“Mitch!” Niner’s voice echoes down towards them. “The answer’s yes!”

Michigan laughs softly as they move towards the door. “She remembers.”

“What the fuck was all that about? What was she saying yes to?”

“Making sure everything’s ready,” Michigan says. She ignores his second question.  

“Are you Freelancers physically capable of giving normal answers? Or do they put in a cryptic chip along with the rest of that bullshit they stuff in your head?”

“Shut up,” Michigan says, drawing her weapon. “Get ready. We’re almost there.”

* * *

“You mean to tell me we've come all this way for  _this_ ? Your fucking crazy AI Epsilon?” Church demands.

Michigan stares at the containment unit in her hands, glad her gauntlets are hiding the way her hands are shaking. Epsilon’s projecting, but Church seems to be getting the brunt of it—she’s just getting echoes, stirring up what Epsilon left last time.

“Yes,” she says. “I thought he was gone. I thought they’d deleted him. But no. It’s like I told Delta—”

“It's cheaper to store it than it is to delete it,” Church says, almost hesitatingly. “Right?”

“Right,” she says, setting Epsilon down on the ground. “When they took him out of my head, he was self-destructing. He was tearing himself to pieces.”

“But why are we looking for this thing?” Church demands, poking the unit with his foot. They both wince as that triggers another surge of memories.

“Memory is the key,” Mitch says. “Did Tex ever tell you how they made the Freelancer AI?”

“No, why the fuck would she?” Church looks perturbed by the very idea. Mentioning Tex in front of Epsilon is a bad idea. The AI unit lets out the equivalent of a scream of pain, causing Mitch and Church both to double over, clutching at their helmets.

“Project Freelancer was one of them. They had their research with smart AI. But they could only get the one, and they needed more to conduct their experiments. So, they got desperate,” Mitch says, staring at Church. _Understand_ , she begs him. _Remember_.

“Right. They tried to... they tried to copy it… but they couldn't, so they—” He trails off.

Mitch picks up. “All A.I. are based on a human mind. And the Director had a theory. He thought, if we can't copy it, we'll just have to do the next best thing.”

They both scream as Epsilon shows them what happens next.

“They split it? Tortured it?” He’s still not _getting it_. Mitch tries to explain about the fragments, but he’s not connecting the dots. He knows Tex, she thinks, frantic. He has to know _something_.

“So you knew. You knew from the beginning what was going on,” Church says, as she tells him about Epsilon.

“Yes,” she says. “Epsilon showed me some. I figured out the rest.”

“Did they know?”

“They suspected. But they needed me and thought they could control me.”

“The… the pilot. You and her…”

“That’s not important now,” Mitch says. She can’t talk about Niner now, can’t think about it. “Right now, we need to get Epsilon out of here.”

“And do what?”

“Turn it into the authorities,” Mitch says. “Then they can bring down the person responsible for what was done to Alpha. And to me. And to my friends. They can take down the Director.”

“What about the Meta? I thought that’s why we’re here!” Church says. “Don’t you need the Alpha for that?”

“I do. It’s another reason why I needed you to come here. I was hoping that Epsilon would help you remember.”

He squints at her. “Remember what?”

“Church,” she says. “There’s _no such thing as ghosts_. You’re the Alpha. You’re an AI.”

He stares at her. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and I lived with Caboose for years.”

“Seriously?” She demands.

“I know, I can’t believe it either. But you’ve topped it. Congratulations.”

“You won’t even consider it?” She asks.

“You think I’m a _computer program_!”

“Why is that so hard to believe?” Mitch can’t believe this. If he won’t…

She swallows. She doesn’t _want_ to face Maine alone. She doesn’t want to fight him alone. But if Church won’t accept what he is…

“Uh, how ’bout ’cause I'm a person? That I have been my whole life? That I have memories from when I was a kid? And I don't remember being a calculator, lady.”

Mitch looks at him, and she swallows down her waves of disappointment and rage. _It’s not worth it_ , she realizes. _He’s not worth it_.

“Fine,” she says flatly.  

“Wait, seriously?”

“Fine. You’re a ghost. A spirit. I was wrong. Let’s get Epsilon upstairs.”

He stares at her. “I thought you would fight me more on this.”

“Is there a point? You clearly don’t think I’m right here, and if you’re not the Alpha, you can’t help me.”

He seems to hesitate, before he grabs the other end of the Epsilon unit, and helps her move it.

* * *

Mitch goes into the chamber alone, and she freezes for a moment when she hears the Director and the Counselor over the speakers.

“You seem to be very stressed, Agent Michigan,” the Counselor says with his signature calm curiosity. “Why do you think that is?”

“I think it might have something to do with the Meta being right behind me.”

“So it has nothing to do with your encounter with your brother?” Mitch grits her teeth and doesn’t answer. “Tell me, how does that make you feel?”

“How do you think that makes me feel?” She demands. “You said you’d keep them safe,” Mitch says, anger boiling over. “So you put them in the _Simulation Program_? The same people you encouraged us to use as target practice for years?” Mitch still feels shaken to her core by that revelation. She doesn’t even know where Frank is right now, and the fact that David had nearly been killed by Wyoming repeatedly is horrifying. She almost wishes the bastard was still alive so she could murder him for that.

“Agent Michigan, we can discuss this later. Right now, we need to focus on the matter at hand,” Mitch _hates_ the Counsellor’s voice more than ever. He’s lied so often and ruined so much, and he’s _still_ trying to reign her in, still trying to control her.

Mitch is done being anyone’s puppet.

She closes her eyes beneath her helmet, safe and hidden, unseen from the Counsellor and the Director’s prying eyes.  

It’s time to finish this.

“I’m sure you have many questions, Michelle,” the Director says, and Mitch glares at the camera.

“Not really,” she starts to say, when there’s a crackling noise, and she turns around in time to see the Meta be caught in the defenses.

She starts to punch in the codes.

The Director orders the Meta to kill her, and the Counselor whispers promises about the Alpha, and Mitch yells as the Meta shoots her in the shoulder, but she still manages to set off the EMP, and everything goes black.

She wakes up, and crawls over towards the unconscious figure nearby. Her shoulder aches, but the healing unit managed to dispense biofoam before the EMP shut it down, so she’ll live. Probably.

“Maine?” She whispers. “Maine, please.” She wants him to answer her more than anything. For him to wake up, free of Sigma’s influence. To be her friend again, to be whole and happy and not the Meta. For this nightmare to be over. To not be alone anymore. The others are gone, except South, but she can’t ever trust South again, but _maybe_ —

Her hands shaking, she fiddles with the seals of his helmet and pulls it off him. His eyes are open, and he growls at her. Not one of his friendly growls either.

“Maine?” He swipes at her, but it’s weak without the AI behind him, and it barely knocks her to one side. She swallows. “Meta,” she whispers, and the hope goes out.

He’s weak right now. He’s not a threat. She could just leave him there, and let the UNSC drag him to prison.

But he’s the Meta, even without Sigma, even without the rest of them. She grabs her knife and hopes that the others got out alright.

When the UNSC comes, they find her kneeling over the Meta’s body, covered in blood.

* * *

“Agent Michigan.” Mitch’s voice snaps up at the sound of the voice.

She’s out of armor, and it terrifies her like she’s never known before. She hasn’t been out of armor since they’d made her Recovery One.

“I am certain you have many questions,” the man steps into the light. Mitch grits her teeth as she tests the shackles that kept her attached to the chair.

“They said I was transferred,” Mitch says. So much has happened over the past few days. Talking to interrogators, seeing them try to dig up her real name, watching as they all run around, and trying to understand what has happened. Then they knocked her unconscious and transported her here—wherever _here_ is. “Where am I?”

“I’m afraid that you don’t need to know that information,” the man says. “All you need to know is that I am someone who is _very_ disappointed by your destruction of Project Freelancer’s artificial intelligences.”

“They turned in the Epsilon AI! That’s all the evidence you need!” She knows they turned it in—they brought it into her cell and asked her questions about it and tried to get her to talk about her implantation process. She didn’t tell them much—she was terrified by the direction the questions seemed to be going.

“Yes, but you destroyed all information about the Alpha AI in the process.” Mitch freezes, and choses her next words very carefully.

“What about the Alpha? No one’s seen it for years.”

“You see, Agent Michigan, that’s where I don’t believe you. Our interrogation of the Epsilon AI—” Mitch freezes, wondering what he means by ‘interrogation’. He wouldn’t… not after what the Director did…

He’s still speaking. “Epsilon seems to believe you know _exactly_ where the Alpha is.”

She sets her jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well then,” he sits next to her. “Perhaps you could direct me towards someone who _could_ help me. Perhaps the former Command of Project Freelancer? Codename, what was it, Four Seven Niner?”

Fear floods through Mitch, and she knows he sees it, know he’s doing it on purpose. Somehow, he knows what Niner means to her, and he’s baiting her. Why, she’s not sure, but he wants something here.  

“Can’t help you there,” she manages to say.

He shakes his head, as if disappointed. But he knew that would be the answer, Mitch can see it on his face as clear as day. He’s backing her into a corner, he’s pushing her against the wall, but _why_?  

“What do you want from me?” Mitch demands, eyes narrowed.

“Agent Michigan, that it seems that I have need for your services,” he says, leaning forward. Mitch doesn’t like the look in his eyes. It’s not just uncaring, like the Counselor, it’s _cruel_.

Mitch raises an eyebrow, trying to keep her heartbeat steady. “Oh?”

For the first time since waking up in prison, she starts to wonder if she’s made a mistake.

“Yes. Your skills are quite impressive. But unfortunately, it’s quite clear I can’t count on your loyalties. But my scientists assure me it shouldn’t be a problem.” He nods to someone behind her, and then Mitch feels someone lift her hair up, going for her implants. Mitch thrashes, trying to throw them off, but it’s no use, she’s stuck, she can’t get free, and she feels something cold and metallic pressed into the slot. “It’s just good business, Agent Michigan. I hope you understand.”

For a moment, there’s a familiar rush of joyful electricity as she and Epsilon meet again in the space of her implants. _< Where have you been?>_ They both seem to ask, no clear lines where he ends and she begins. It’s calm for a moment. It’s the way it should be. The two of them, divided and reunited again, healthy and whole.

But then they both start to scream in unison for the second time in their lives, and everything goes white.

* * *

“Agent Michigan, where is the Alpha?”

“He will be with the Reds and Blues of Project Freelancer,” Michigan reports, standing at parade rest in front of the Chairman. Epsilon nods in her head, showing her their pictures. Soldiers in brightly colored armor. Impractical, she thinks. Epsilon, who prefers to project himself a pale blue, sends her an offended thought.

The Chairman turns to one of the scientists, who’s holding the clipboard. “Her memories aren’t perfect, Chairman,” the scientist explains. “The Epsilon unit is creating an artificial separation between her facial memory and her emotional memory. She won’t recognize people most of the time, especially if she has emotional connections with them. And she won’t remember specifics unless Epsilon prompts her. The Epsilon unit is completely cutting off her long-term memory.”

Michigan doesn’t frown, but in her head she turns to Epsilon. < _What is he talking about?_ >

< _I… don’t know? I don’t think it’s important. I think we need to forget it. Both of us. >_

“And she’ll follow orders?” The Chairman asks.

“Yes sir,” the scientist says. “Epsilon has an inherent recognition of the Charon Industries command chain. She will recognize people who are allowed to give her orders, and respond appropriately. At the moment, you are the only one she’ll listen to, but that can easily be updated to include whoever needs to be in the field.”

“And her abilities?”

“Preliminary testing indicates that she has not been negatively affected. In fact, it seems that reuniting her with Epsilon has improved her combat skills greatly.”

Michigan and Epsilon both agree with that. They can’t remember why they were ever separated in the first place; Epsilon makes her faster, better, stronger. Michigan knows she’s never fought better, not on her own—

< _We’ve always worked alone, remember? > _Epsilon says to her, nudging her away from that thought.  

 _< Right_,> she agrees. < _Just the two of us. >_

“Excellent,” the Chairman says, turning his attention back to her. Epsilon longs to project, to be included in the conversation, but they both know that’s a bad idea. He hasn’t asked to talk to Epsilon yet.

< _Forget, > _Epsilon says, and the previous conversation slips away from them both, buried away with the rest. Michigan blinks, sluggish for a moment, then refocuses.

“Agent Michigan, what will you do if anyone tries to stop you from retrieving the Alpha AI?” The Chairman asks. He looks pleased at something. Michigan wonders what it is.  

“I wouldn’t let them, sir,” she says smartly. “I will retrieve the Alpha AI at any cost.”

“Correct answer, Agent Michigan,” he says. He turns to the scientist again. “Is Agent Michigan’s armor ready?”

The scientist frowns. “Sir, we haven’t finished studying the armor mods yet.”

“No matter,” Hargrove says. “A reflex enhancer is hardly the top priority.” He shakes his head. “When she returns, I want you to outfit her with something more useful.”

Michigan frowns. Her enhancement has saved her life. It saved her from… from…

She doesn’t have an answer. She can’t think of when she’s used her enhancement before.

_< Epsilon?>_

_< I’m not sure,> _Epsilon responds, slowly. < _I think… I think… I think we need to forget this. >_

 _< Alright.> _The memories slip away again, and she follows the scientist down the hall.

Her armor feels good to wear again. The weight feels right, and Epsilon buzzes in excitement as he rushes through every system, exploring every crook and cranny of her armor.  

< _It’s been so long!_ > He crows, flooding her HUD with information that she might need, before quickly narrowing it down so she can actually see. They both feel a rush of euphoria, and neither of them know who felt it first. The lines between the two of them seem to blur even more now that they’re in the suit, pushing them closer to one being. 

< _We’re together again, >_ she says to him. < _Like it should be_. >

She recovers her weapons, and grins as she slots each of her knives into their appropriate slots. She pauses briefly over one knife in particular, the one she knows belongs in her boot. Something in her knows this is her favorite, but that doesn’t make sense, this one is not even remotely the best. She twists it, and stares at the pommel.

There’s a map of the United States, with a number nine engraved there. It doesn’t affect the balance or anything, but it looks… sentimental. She doesn’t know what it means. She finds she doesn’t care. She slides it into place with the others, and then goes through the motions to slip it into her boot.

“Are you ready, Agent Michigan?” The scientist asks.

“Yes sir,” she says, and salutes.

* * *

“Agent Michigan?” Simmons stares down the barrel of the gun, shocked at the sight of the familiar charcoal armor.

She’s been missing since Freelancer. Niner has been throwing _fits_ before stomping off to go find her. They’d told her that Mitch would show up, and it seems like they’d been right after all. But why she’s pointing a gun at him is a mystery.

“Where is Alpha?” There’s something wrong with her voice—almost a second layer, but it fades after she says the name. Alpha… oh wait, that’s what Church said she called him. The Alpha AI. Church thought it was complete bullshit, but the others weren’t so sure.  

“What, you mean Church?” He and the others had gone to find Tucker two days ago, and there hasn’t been word since then.

The gun moves to the side, and she shoots Lopez. “Where is the Alpha?” The second layer isn’t there anymore, but her voice is almost mechanical. She hasn’t even spared Donut a glance, even though he’s shaking in his boots at the sound of her voice.

“Mitch?” Donut asks, and Simmons hasn’t heard him sound like that _ever_. “Mitch, is that you?”

The gun swivels towards Donut, and Simmons lets out a yell as the gun goes off. Simmons falls to his knees, trying to check for a pulse, to stop the bleeding, _anything_ that might help. His mind is reeling, and the main thing he thinks is, _Wash is going to kill me_.

“Donut! What the hell is wrong with you? He’s your _brother_ , you—” His insults are cut off as Michigan throws him against a wall, her gun pressing right against his forehead.

“You have two kneecaps,” Michigan hisses, and she hadn’t sound this dangerous even when she was yelling at them for screwing up with the Meta. “Tell me where the Alpha is _now_ , or that will change.” There’s a bright flicker of something blue by her shoulder for a moment, before it disappears again.

Simmons desperately cranes his neck to see Donut. He’s not moving at all, not even crying the way he does whenever he stubs a toe.

Simmons realizes that Donut’s probably dead, and he wants to cry, but Michigan is right there, and he doesn’t doubt her threats at all.

Of course, the problem is, he has no idea where Church is. Or any of the others for that matter.

So he’s probably going to die.

* * *

“And you’re sure?” Niner asks, leaning forward.

Angel had been one of the top medics for the Project. Not one of the doctors or the surgeons, but one of the simple medics. She’d patched up every Freelancer at one time or another. Angel on My Shoulder had been her official code name, and like so many of them, it had stuck.

Of all the places to find the former medic, a dingy bar in a backwater planet was the last. But Angel had made her break for it years ago, and stayed hidden, so Niner supposed it worked. And Angel had the kind of contacts that Niner lacked.

 “Damned sure of it,” Angel says. The older woman looks like she’s been through a lot. But then again, they all have over the past few years.

“They transferred her?”

Angel nods. “First they charged her with the deliberate destruction of evidence. They’re arguing she was covering for the Director.”

“That’s bullshit!” Niner wants to punch something, and Angel nods.

“Everyone who knows what _really_ happened knows that. But doesn’t matter. That’s their story. And then they transferred her into private custody.”

“That can’t be legal,” Niner says, mouth dry.

“She doesn’t _exist_ , Niner,” Angel reminds her. “None of them did! They all got scrubbed clean when they joined up. No one’s going to be arguing for her legal rights, especially with all the back room dealing that went down to get her there.”

“Who has her?” Niner demands, knuckles white around her glass.

“One Malcolm Hargrove. Rumor has it that he’s in charge of Charon Industries. Or, as rumor has it, the Insurrection.”

Niner thinks her heart stops, before resuming at a stampeding speed. “They gave her to the _Insurrection_?”

“She’s alive,” Angel says, trying to be comforting. “I know that much.”

“How?”

Angel bites her lip, and Niner thinks, for a moment, that she’s not going to tell her. “Because the transfer papers identify her as an agent. They want her to work for them, Niner.”

“She’d never do that,” Niner says instantly. The only reason Mitch had even kept working for Freelancer was because of Niner. If it hadn’t been for that, she would have cut and ran years ago. Mitch’s loyalty was always to _people_ , not organizations, and when the others had scattered, Mitch hadn’t had anything left except Niner.  

“Maybe not willingly,” Angel shrugs. “But there’s some nasty rumors about Hargrove. Mind control, armor enhancements, whispers about employing some unsavory types to do his dirty work.”

“Damn it!” Niner punches the bar this time.

“You going to try to get her out?” Angel asks, refilling Niner’s glass without asking.

“With what? The Sim Troopers?” Niner snorts.

Angel doesn’t say anything, but there’s a look on her face.

“What do you know?” Niner leans forward.  

Angel smiles faintly, and pulls out a tablet. “I got this yesterday.”

The video is blurry and faded. But Niner watches it intensely.

A single figure, fighting like she’s got nothing to lose, moving too fast, fighting with a skill that Niner has only seen once before—

Then the armor changes color, and Niner doesn’t have any doubt at all.

“She’s alive,” Niner whispers. She turns towards Angel.

“Where was this taken?”

“Break in at a former Freelancer facility,” Angel says. “Fifth in the last few weeks. They started as soon as your girl took down Freelancer.”

“She’s looking for something.”

Angel nods. “Bet she wouldn’t mind lending a hand.”

“Oh, she better not,” Niner says, then she gets to her feet.

She has an old friend to hunt down.

* * *

Of all the ghosts from her past that Carolina expects to come hunt her down, Four Seven Niner was not one of them.

“Agent,” Niner has a gun out, but she’s not aiming it at her yet. Carolina shifts on her feet, preparing her speed mod.

“Niner.” She hadn’t even realized that Niner was alive. But she looks the same as ever. Her armor hasn’t even changed.

“Thought you were dead,” Niner says, almost idly.

“How did you find me?”

There’s a grin in Niner’s voice. “I know people.”

“So what brings _Command_ out here?” Texas materializes, and Niner freezes, spinning towards the sound of her voice.

Not that Carolina can blame her. Texas was _not_ the person Carolina would have guessed as her partner for this. _Command_. Niner was working for Freelance? The familiar anger rises in Carolina’s chest, and she draws her own weapon. After everything they did, Niner had _stayed with them_?

Niner points her gun at Texas, not realizing that Carolina is drawing her gun. “Agent Texas was reported killed by the Meta,” she snaps. “Who the fuck are you?”

When Texas had found her, Carolina had been just as surprised. “I let them jump to conclusions,” Texas had said. “You want to take down the Director?”

“Did you ever say yes, Niner?” Texas shoots back. “Did the loyal Freelancer bitches get married?”

The gun lowers. “Fuck you,” Niner snaps. “After the shit that Epsilon did in her head, after you all _left her behind_ , what did you think she could do?”

They had Mitch, Carolina realizes. They used Mitch against Niner, and Niner against Mitch. Guilt for leaving them behind makes her lower her weapon, more than anything else.

Texas shrugs, unaffected by the guilt that’s ravaging Carolina. “We were in a rush.”

Niner laughs without humor. “I bet.” She looks back to Carolina. “They have Mitch, Carolina. They gave her to the Insurrection, and they’re going to _hurt her_. I want her back.” There’s a possessive note in Niner’s voice; and danger. Carolina believes then that Niner would destroy planets to get Mitch back.

“We’re going after the Director,” Texas snaps.

“Mitch has Epsilon’s memories. The _Alpha_ ’s memories.” Texas and Carolina both stiffen at that. That’s… a new development. “If anyone knows where he is, it’d be her.”

Carolina hasn’t seen Michigan since her fight with Texas all those years ago. She’s tried not to think of the youngest Freelancer since then.

Her team.

Mitch is the last one left.

“Fine,” she says. “We’ll get her back. Then the Director.”

* * *

Michigan tracks the Reds and Blues to the desert.

< _Why were they here?_ > Epsilon wonders, as she shifts through the sand, looking for clues. She stares at the odd brown helmet, holding it in her hands.

< _I’m not sure,_ > she says.

She follows them to a place that’s covered in snow. _< Sidewinder_,> Epsilon tells her.

She looks around. < _Have we been here before?_ > Something about the snow seems to strike a chord with them.

Epsilon freezes over the question. < _I… don’t… know…_ >

She frowns. There seem to be holes in both of their memories. She doesn’t like it. Neither does Epsilon.

“Michigan! What the fuck are you doing?”

She looks up, and Epsilon starts screaming. < _Alpha_! >

She gets to her feet, and reaches for the capture unit.

“Seriously! Niner stormed off looking for you, and Wash has been fucking worried!”

“Ooh, this is Wash’s sister?” There’s a soldier in teal armor. Epsilon doesn’t recognize him. She keeps stalking forward. “Hey, maybe you could tell me, I’ve always wondered—” He breaks off, recognizing something that Alpha still hasn’t figured out. “Dude, I don’t think she’s coming over to say hello.”

“What the fuck are you talking about Tucker? She’s weird, but she’s not—”

“Church!” The soldier from before, in maroon armor, runs out. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Playing bait, apparently!”

Michigan speeds up upon hearing that, but she’s not fast enough.

“Hello Michigan,” a black armored woman shimmers into view. Epsilon starts screaming again. Michigan grits her teeth, trying to focus, even though the sound is causing her head to ache and pressure to build up behind her eyes.

“Who are you?” She demands.

“Don’t remember me? I’m hurt,” the woman says. “Maybe you’ll remember _this_!” She punches down, aiming for Michigan’s helmet. She rolls out of the way, and scrambles to her feet.  < _Epsilon_! >

< _I know her_! > He screams. < _I know her, I know her, I know her_ …>

< _From where? Who is she? >_

_< I don’t **know**. >_

 < _Think about it later! We need to fight!_ >

“Hey Michigan! Focus on the fight!” The attacker charges, and Michigan ducks out of the way of her swinging fists.

< _Epsilon, please!_ >

He flickers into existence above her shoulder. The woman draws to a halt, staring.

“Give us the Alpha, and we will leave,” Michigan says, and Epsilon speaks with her.

“Not likely,” the woman says.

“Mitch!” A woman in silver armor appears. “What the hell are you doing?”

Michigan draws her gun. “Surrender the Alpha—” < _Agent Texas,_ > Epsilon supplies, finally calm enough to pull up her file. “—Agent Texas. We will leave then.”

“She’s another Meta,” Texas says to a third figure, this one wearing aqua armor. “We need to end this now!”

The teal figure and the black figure charge in unison, and Michigan and Epsilon prepare to fight.

“No!” The silver woman yells, but she’s thrown back by the force of the grenade that Michigan throws at the two women, and the fight begins in earnest.

* * *

“Tex! Don’t!” Wash actually tackles Tex. She doesn’t so much as budge, but it’s still possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done. “She’s not in her right mind, you can’t—”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Wash!” Tex throws him off, and charges Mitch with a roar.

Mitch has a knife out, and the flicker of her AI’s projection darts around her, almost too fast to see.

Mitch shoves the Warthog, sending it flying towards Tex, who dodges it.

“Since when can she do that?” Tex yells.

“She has a strength mod!” The new Freelancer yells back. She’s moving so fast she’s a blur, but Mitch is somehow keeping up, knife flashing through the air. Her AI flickers in and out, and Wash hears him shouting things that Wash can’t make out.

It takes a while for Wash to realize that he’s not saying anything.

He’s just screaming.

The teal Freelancer manages to disarm Mitch, who responds to the loss of her knife by lunging for the other Freelancer’s throat.

“Carolina!” Tex yells, and she tackles Mitch to the ground. Mitch yells, the sound of it echoed by the AI.

“ _Allison_!” The AI cries.

Tex freezes for a moment, which gives Mitch the opportunity to twist out of Tex’s grip.

“It’s Epsilon!” Niner yells, holding onto Wash’s arm with a death grip. “They put Epsilon back in her head, and it’s doing something to her memories!”

“How do you know that?” Wash demands.

“I was fucking Freelancer Command, I know shit!”

Tex lets out a roar. “I am _done with this_!” Her fist collided with Mitch right in the helmet, and Mitch dropped like a stone.

It was over.

* * *

“Jesus,” Texas mutters, when they get the helmet off Mitch. “How old  _is_ she?”

Carolina tries to do the math, but fails. The years have started to blur together, and she’s less aware of the passage of time than she used to be. “She was… twenty four? When she joined Freelancer.”

“Fuck,” Texas mutters. “She’s just a _kid_.”

“She was the rookie,” Carolina mutters. Mitch’s hair has been buzzed short; no sign of the curls that used to hang free and loose around her face. It looks so wrong. Her implant port is exposed, the skin around it looks scarred as hell, but it’s also covered in recent scratches.

She’s been trying to take it out. Even through the brainwashing.

There are scars. So many scars. Scars that weren’t there before, scars that _shouldn’t_ be there. Then Carolina sees the tattoo on her shoulder, and she refuses to look at Niner.

A pelican.

She’d gotten a fucking _pelican tattoo_. A name or even the call sign might have been too obvious, but the ship? Mitch would try the ship. She could get away with that.

Niner’s removing Mitch’s armor, separating her mods from the rest of it.

“Why did she get two?” Wash asks. Carolina can barely look at him. She’d known that Mitch had a brother, but seeing him was something else altogether.

“Didn’t need an AI to run the reflex enhancer,” Carolina said automatically. “The strength mod was experimental, they probably just wanted to see if it worked more than anything, and never took it back.”

“That program was a fucking mess,” Wash mutters.

“Can we fix her?” Church—the _Alpha_ —says. “Just… take that thing out of her head and let things go back to normal?”

“That might not fix her,” Carolina says. “And just pulling an AI can have negative side effects. Especially since I don’t think Mitch’s ports were in the best condition to begin with.” She swallows, and doesn’t look at Niner or Wash. “We might not be able to fix this,” she says.

“We will,” Niner snaps.

“She shot Donut,” Simmons points out.

“Who’s Donut?” Carolina asks, frowning.

“Her other brother,” Tex says to her quietly, and Carolina flinches.

Mitch had a huge family, it seemed.

Too bad they’d all let her down.

* * *

“Do you know who I am?” The woman asks. Her helmet is off.

Michigan pauses, turning to Epsilon inside of her head. < _Do we know her_? >

< _I don’t think so_? > Faces flicker through both of their minds. < _Oh wait! Four Seven Niner of Project Freelancer! You’ve worked with her before_. >

Michigan nods to Four Seven Niner. “You are Four Seven Niner of Project Freelancer. You were a pilot.”

Four Seven Niner stares at her, before spinning to face Texas. “You were saying?”

Epsilon hisses at the sight of Texas, and her implants are too warm, heating up against her skin. < _You don’t know her_ ,> Michigan reminds him.

< _I know_! > He howls, but there’s a pained edge to it, as if he doesn’t believe it, and it’s killing him.

“Well, how do we fix it?” The cobalt soldier demands. He has yellow highlights on his armor. That’s not regulation. He seems to know her.

She remembers, vaguely, that the maroon one had claimed that she was related to the pink one. Epsilon screams as she tries to access those memories, and she winces, because it sets her nerves all off, and all she wants to do is claw at her implants, and get him _out_ , but no, that’s against orders. He’s her partner, he makes her better, he helps her, she needs him, he needs her—

Epsilon falls silent. < _I don’t like them_ ,> he says. < _We need to get out of here_. >

< _We need the Alpha_ ,> she says, shifting her glance to the building where he disappeared into, along with the other simulation troopers. < _We need to complete the mission_. >

The cobalt soldier walks up to her, and looks like he’s about to kneel in front of her, perfect for a hostage, before Texas hauls him back by the scruff of his neck like a cat.  

“Keep your distance,” Texas warns, but the cobalt soldier seems to be struggling to listen to common sense. He’s practically radiating his desire to come closer to her, and she tilts her head, curious.

The helmet comes off. “Do you know me?” He asks, desperately. 

Michigan stares at him. The face looks like hers. Freckles, freckles, so many freckles— _her implants are on fire_. She screams with Epsilon’s voice, he screams with hers, there is no end to this loop. There is no line, no separation between the two of them. She is Epsilon and he is Michigan and he is Epsilon and she is Michigan and they are—

“Get him out of her!” Carolina yells, and Michigan keeps screaming.

There’s a farmhouse with a willow tree in the front yard— _there’s a ranch house in Texas_ —the best feeling in the world is the feeling of dirt under her nails, or at least she thought that until she meets Andi— _Allison laughs at him as she gives him a tissue to stop his nosebleed_ —she’s a soldier, the armor is her second skin, her team is her family, she’ll do anything for them— _they’re dying, they’re all dying, his fault his fault his fault_ —her big brother’s face behind a helmet, and he opens his mouth and he calls her—

She is Mitch.

He is Church.

And they stop screaming.

She opens her eyes, and she’s lying in the snow, and David’s reaching for her with a panicked expression. In his hand, she sees a chip, covered in blood. There’s a warm liquid trickling down her neck, and she feels hands pressing her in place, but whose hands, she doesn’t know.

“David?” She asks. She freezes, memories flooding her. “Where’s Frank?”

“Mitch!” David lunges for her, and Texas— _Texas_?—lunges again, pulling him back.

“Stay back! It could be a trick!”

“I— _I shot him_.” Mitch whispers. “Oh god, I _shot him_.”

Then Niner is there. “Do you know me?” She demands. “Do you know me?”

“Andi, _please_ ,” she begs. “Andi, is Frank okay?” She twists, more instinctively than anything, and she freezes when she recognizes the armor. “ _Carolina?_ ”

“Fine, that’s her,” Texas says, and Carolina lets go, and Mitch slowly pulls herself up. She’s freezing in the snow, her armor in pieces around her. The cords they’d used to bind her wrists are snapped, and she just kneels there, looking around.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“What did they do to you?” Niner whispers. She’s not touching Mitch yet, holding back. Mitch doesn’t blame her. She remembers—oh god, she threw a knife at her, she threw a warthog at Texas, she had her hands around Carolina’s neck.

She swallows. “I’m not sure,” she should _know this_. She knows she and Epsilon were witness to conversations about how it worked, but she can’t remember at all, and it’s terrifying and horrifying, and she wants to throw up, she wants to scream.

Then Niner is hugging her, clinging to her like she’s never going to let go, and Mitch hugs her back, desperately.

Her tears are freezing on her face, and Niner’s grip is too strong in armor, but Mitch doesn’t even care, because this is _real_.

“We need to hurry,” Carolina says. “We need to get out of here now.”

Mitch struggles to her feet, and David is there, and he’s helping her.

“We need to get you back in armor,” Texas says.

Mitch squints, blearily, and starts doing her best.

She piles into the warthog, packed tightly between Niner and Wash, and she’s shaking, she’s furious, she wants to scream.

“Michigan,” Carolina’s voice breaks through her haze. “Do you know where the Director is?”

Mitch looks at her, and tentatively goes over everything she remembers. “I—I don’t—” She swallows. “I—I’d need to implant him again to figure that out.”

“ _No_!” Mitch jumps as Niner, Carolina, Texas, and Wash all yell in unison.

“He is not going anywhere near you ever again!” Niner says.

“But—”

“We’ll figure out another way,” Texas snaps. “We’ve got Alpha, we’ve got me, we’ve got Epsilon. We’ll manage.”

Mitch nods, and leans her head against Niner’s shoulder.

She’s asleep in moments. 

* * *

They go back to Valhala to regroup. And to bury Mitch’s brother.

Niner’s still shaking with fury as she wraps her arms around Mitch tightly.

Back at Freelancer, Mitch had always been vague about her family. Niner had known more than most—the others had only known about one nebulous brother who liked skateboarding who Theta reminded Mitch of. Niner had known that there had been at least two brothers in the army. She had known that Mitch was her real name, short for Michelle. She had known that Mitch came from a farming family in Iowa.

She hadn’t met Frank—or Donut, as the others had called him. He’d been gone when she’d been at Valhalla, and she’d left before he’d arrived.

But Wash had told her stories.

And Mitch had shot him.

Mitch sleeps through most of the trip back to Valhalla. She wakes up screaming each time, and Niner whispers, “It’s fine, you’re fine.” And then Mitch shakes her head at her, and Niner knows that her nightmares were about Donut.

And there’s nothing Niner can do to make that better.

She tries to imagine shooting Mikey, and the thought turns her blood to ice. Even though Mitch obviously wasn’t in control and didn’t remember who anyone was…

She brushes the tears off Mitch’s face in one of their rare stops. They’re out of sight of the others, and Mitch has her helmet off.

“It’s not your fault,” she says, still holding Mitch’s hand. “It’s Hargrove’s fault.”

“I _shot him_ ,” Mitch says, shaking again.

They get to Valhalla, and they’re greeted by a man in purple armor. “Hey guys!”

“Oh shit,” Wash mutters. The Reds appear to be looking for weapons.

“What’s wrong?” Carolina asks. “He’s a medic, isn’t he?”

“No, that’s _Doc_ ,” Church says. “He’s like, the anti-medic.”

“You’ll see,” Tex says, sounding like she’s going to enjoy this, and Carolina and Niner exchange a look.

“What are you doing here, Doc?” Wash asks.

“I was scheduled to make some rounds around these parts!” Doc says cheerfully. “Imagine my surprise when I find Donut bleeding out!”

Mitch is frozen beside Niner.

“Hey, you guys are back!” A figure in pink armor appears, and Wash lets out a cry.

“Frank!” He grabs Donut into a tight hug.

“Oh, hey Wash!”

“We thought you were dead,” Wash says, finally letting go.

“Nope! My armor locked down until Doc found me and played Doctor until I was able to get it up again!” Donut turns around, and he grins. “Hey Tex! You’re alive! Wow, I bet Church was happy about that! How did you guys bump into each other again?”

“Huh,” Church says. “That actually wasn’t all that—”

“Must have been some rendezvous!”

“And there we go,” Church sounds resigned.

Donut, meanwhile, has turned his attentions away from Church and Tex, and is looking at Mitch. “… Mitch?”

“Frank,” she whispers, not moving a single inch. “Frank, I’m so, so—”

“Hey, you recognize me now!” Donut sounds pleased. “I guess the guys fixed up your brain, huh?”

“What the fuck, you figured out she was brainwashed?” Tucker demands.

“Well _duh_ ,” Donut says, propping his hands on his hips. “She stepped in my cabbage patch! She crushed one of them! Mitch would _never_ do that!”

Wash let out a short laugh.

“And… the shooting you?” Simmons asks, cautiously giving Mitch a sidelong glance.

Donut shrugs. He opens up his arms, looking right at Mitch.

Mitch hesitates. Niner pushes her forward. Mitch stumbles, then grabs a hold of Donut with a death grip, lifting him into the air.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

* * *

They implant Epsilon in an alien artifact Caboose picked up in the desert. Mitch walks away the minute he turns on.

She goes with them to fight the Director.

She listens to UNSC chatter and hears her name, and all of their names. They’re all wanted by the UNSC. Hargrove is turning the entire world against them. She and Niner stay up late at night, trying to plan their way out of this.

Carolina walks out of the Director’s office with Epsilon in her suit and a grim expression. Mitch doesn’t ask.

They steal a slip-space capable ship, and Niner flies them out to the edges of space, chased by the UNSC.

And then they crash.

When Mitch comes to afterwards, nightmare cries still on her tongue, Niner tells her that Texas and Carolina are gone.

* * *

“ _Freckles, shake_ !”

Mitch wakes up, and she doesn’t see anyone.

And then Locus is there.

“You’re finally awake, Agent Michigan,” he says, and fear floods her.

“Where are the others?” She demands.

“Your injuries were quite severe, Agent Michigan,” Locus observes instead of answering.

Mitch is still in armor—a mistake. A big mistake. They’ve removed her obvious weapons, but her lucky knife is still in her boot, and when Locus looks away, distracted by the entrance of a woman in purple trimmed armor, she gets it out, and lunges.

Locus is tall and good, but Mitch has the element of surprise and a weapon, and she has him pinned against the wall in a moment, her knife against his jugular. Even with the armor in the way, it wouldn’t take much to kill him.

“Where are the others?” She growls. “If you’ve done _anything_ to them—”

“Mitch!” Frank grabs her arm, and he yanks her back. “Mitch, _stop_!”

“What’s going on?” She demands. She doesn’t fight Frank’s grip as he pulls her away from the mercenary. “Where are the others?”

“Uh,” Frank sounds nervous now. “Well, Sarge, Lopez, Church and I are here!”

Fear floods her. “And the others?”

He looks at her. “Don’t freak out. Please,” he begs.

“Your friends were captured by the New Republic,” Locus says simply.

Mitch spins to face him. “Last I checked, you captured _us_ ,” she hisses.

“I’m afraid, Agent Michigan, that things on this planet are a lot more complicated than you were lead to believe,” a man in golden trimmed armor says. “Doctor Grey, is she quite alright?”

“Oh yes! Her neural implants aren’t in great shape, but she’s just fine, General!” The woman in purple armor says cheerfully. “But it doesn’t look like you were using those,” she addresses Mitch directly. “So I’m sure you won’t mind.”

Mitch wants to scream at the idea of someone poking around in her head again. But Frank is still holding her arm, so she doesn’t move.

“Then explain it to me,” she demands. “Because I’m having a _very_ bad day, and the last time someone separated me from my people, I burned everything to the ground.” _Niner. David._ Fear was making her heart race, and she wanted to do nothing more than to rip Locus’s throat out. But Donut was grounding her.

She thought that she heard the general swallow audibly. “Right!”

* * *

Niner has a very long list of things she hates.

Being separated from Mitch is rapidly climbing towards the top, however.

“Look, she’s the one who caused the avalanche! I couldn’t do anything about that!” Niner has mentally classified Felix as an ‘annoying piece of shit’.

“Niner,” Wash puts a hand on her arm. “Niner, it’s not his fault.”

Niner doesn’t trust Felix. And luckily, she’s managed to impress onto Wash the importance of not letting his relationship of Mitch slip. Felix is the kind of greedy shit who’d sell Mitch’s name to the UNSC for a reward. And while Wash likes Felix, he clearly sees the argument there, and has kept his mouth shut.

Niner just has to hope that Mitch has managed to do the same with Donut. And with Church’s real identity. Luckily, Church is still refusing to believe he’s the Alpha, which might make things easier. Although with Sarge around, maybe not.

* * *

“I’m not a soldier,” Michigan snaps at Locus. “I was. They hollowed me out to make me one and I’m still learning to be a person again after that.” She turns her helmet towards him. “You might think that’s something to aspire towards,” her voice sounds dangerous. “But I’m going to really disagree.”

Locus watches her walk away.

Agent Michigan, Franklin Donut, the man known as Sergeant, a robot with the serial Lopez, and one Private Leonard Church.

Locus is supposed to get close to Agent Michigan if possible, to attempt to figure out if she knows the location of the Alpha AI. She hasn’t given any hint about it. When Felix had asked her at the crash site about the reported other Freelancer (according to rumors, Agent Carolina) and the Epsilon AI, she’d shrugged it off.

There’s a possibility that the Alpha was damaged or even destroyed in the crash, but Control doesn’t believe so.

He’d first heard of Agent Michigan several months ago, when Control had mentioned he had recently acquired a former member of Project Freelancer. “Once she has recovered some vital equipment,” Control had said, “I believe she might be joining you on Chorus.”

There hadn’t been another word about that, not until they’d been given her dossier upon learning of her landing on Chorus.

The problem is, Control had told them, they aren’t sure how much Agent Michigan remembered. It’s possible she knows nothing about who had implanted her with the Epsilon AI, but it’s also possible that she knows everything.

She’s an unknown variable, and it’s a concern. It’s the reason why she’s the only one of the Reds and Blues who Felix and Locus can kill at their own discretion. If they think she suspects something, they kill her. It’s as simple as that.

Locus doesn’t think she knows. Maybe she remembers, but she doesn’t know what’s happening on Chorus.

Which gives Locus more time to try to understand her.

* * *

The door swings open, and Mitch readies her gun. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting. Rebels, enemies, guns blazing.

The last thing she expects are the others, looking just as surprised to see her and the others as they are to see them.

“Wash!” She and Donut throw themselves forward at the same time, and the three of them cling to each other as tightly as they can, refusing to let go.

“What the fuck is happening?” Tucker yells, and the siblings reluctantly separate, but before they can speak, Niner lunges forward.

“You’re alright,” Mitch says, almost unable to believe it. Her luck is _never_ this good.  

“I’m pretty sure that’s our line!” Niner says, resting her helmet against Mitch’s. “You guys were captive by bad guys, remember?”

“Wait, I thought you guys were being brainwashed by terrorists!” Donut says, and arguing breaks out.

Mitch finds herself not worried. They’re together again. All other concerns come second.

* * *

Mitch tries to keep herself between Donut and the laser sights, but there’s too many of them. Carolina can see the panic in her body language, the fear. She’s only just found Wash and Niner, and now she’s about to lose them, or so she thinks.

Carolina sets her teeth and keeps listening. They need to _know._

“Oh, stop acting so offended, Michigan,” Felix mocks. “It’s just good business.”

Mitch goes very still. Carolina’s eyes narrow, wonder what she’s doing. “Hargrove,” Mitch says, clearly but softly. Felix and Locus freeze. Epsilon flares brightly in Carolina’s mind in a silent scream. “You’re working for Hargrove.” Her helmet snaps up, looking right at Carolina. “Move, now!” She yells, and then she charges Felix, her knife out in an instant.

Epsilon shows her what to do in a single moment, and Carolina starts moving. Behind her, Texas is doing the same, bursting into action.

Mitch and Felix are fighting below them, and Carolina can feel Epsilon worry, but she focuses on the fight. Locus is good, and even with Tex keeping all the pirates off her back, she needs to concentrate.

< _No, Mitch!_ > Epsilon yells, and Carolina risks a glance, just in time to see Mitch’s fist collide with the wall, where Felix’s head was a moment before.

Cracks appear in the wall from the force of the blow and Mitch growls, pivoting to charge Felix again.

< _She’s using her strength enhancer!_ > Epsilon says. < _She can’t run that safely without an AI!_ >

< _I don’t think she cares!_ > Carolina replies, and, sure enough, Mitch’s fighting is reckless, her swings wild and uncontrolled. Carolina doesn’t know how Mitch realized it was Hargrove—Epsilon is still reeling at that revelation—but it’s thrown Mitch off her game.

She’s going to get herself killed.

That’s not acceptable.

“Texas!” Carolina sends Locus flying with a roundhouse kick, and Tex nods, jumping down to the level with the boys, landing right on top of Felix with a sickening crunch.

“Move!” Tex yells, and she grabs Mitch and hauls her towards the center. Carolina leaps down to join them, and throws up the future cube.

* * *

“How did you know we were there?” Carolina asks, bandaging Mitch’s arm.

Mitch’s brown eyes are cold and dull. “I knew you and Tex wouldn’t leave them.”

Them. Not us. Carolina and Epsilon both freeze at that. Mitch thinks that Carolina would leave her again, would just let her die, if it weren’t for the boys.

“Mitch,” she says, haltingly.

“Don’t bother,” Mitch snaps. “Just tell me. Did you know it was Hargrove?”

“I—we suspected.” Carolina has to admit.

“And you _left me behind_?” Mitch demands. “The guy who _fucked with my head_ is pulling shit on this planet, and so you take off without a word?”

“Hey!” Epsilon protests. “Mitch, drop it!”

Mitch’s fist goes through his hologram. “Don’t you fucking start!” She yells. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ —”

“You were basically catatonic!” Epsilon screeches. “You could barely do anything except hug your freaking girlfriend and have fucking nightmares.”

“ _Epsilon_!” Carolina says. It was certainly true—Mitch hadn’t been in a good place when they’d landed on Chorus.

“You fucking couldn’t even stop him the first time, what makes you think—”

Mitch stares at the holograph. “Are you _blaming me for this_?” She yells, and now there’s color in her cheeks. She’s furious, and Carolina can’t blame her.

“ _Give Epsilon to the UNSC you said! Turn him in!_ _You fucking handed me right to him!_ ”

“You _wiped my memories_! You fucked my brain not once, but _twice_! While you were in my head, **_I shot my younger brother_** _._ ” Mitch looks alive again, eyes flashing dangerously, but Carolina doesn’t think she likes it. It’s not an expression that fits with her mental picture of the team rookie who made out with their pilot in storage closets and managed to figure out every single one of their birthdays.

“Mitch!” Niner grabs Mitch’s wrist. “Calm down. Please.”

Mitch stares at Epsilon, then she turns her gaze to Carolina. “Fine,” she whispers, and lets herself be lead away.

Carolina turns away. “You going to tell me how long you’ve been sitting on that rant?” She demands. “Mitch does _not need that_ , Epsilon.”

Epsilon feels guilty in her mind. “She doesn’t get to act all high and mighty. You didn’t abandon her.”

“I did the first time,” Carolina says, quietly. “I guess we all did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Angel" Niner talks to is a reference to the non-canon S9 trailer, which features the Angel On My Shoulder Medical base.
> 
> Come talk to me over on [tumblr!](http://www.secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com)


	3. Here Comes the General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha joins the army, and ends up on a small planet in the middle of nowhere called Chorus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no regrets. I’m sorry Wash. 
> 
> This entry, once again, is because of [Iz](http://secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com/post/142383505219/goodluckdetective-replied-to-your-post-donut'). She's enabling me. It's lovely. 
> 
> Third one! Martha’s turn!

Martha joins the army, and it’s just like that. Nothing else changes. Her brother still gets spaced, Frank still wants to follow in David’s footsteps, Mitch still wants to farm, and Jackie’s still looking at schools.

When David goes MIA, they give them a flag. They tell her that her brother probably died in the vacuum of space, trapped in his power armor and alone.

She stays up late and thinks about it. She sees Jackie clutch her textbooks and cry, she sees Mitch throw knives into the big tree out front, she sees Frank burn everything he tries to cook. She sees Mom cry on the couch and Dad come home late at night, smelling like cigarette smoke and manure.

But Martha joins the army anyways. Maybe she wants to see what her brother saw there, what he thought was worth dying for. Maybe it’s just an itch that she needs to scratch. Maybe it’s that she knows that she’s not smart enough for college, and she doesn’t see any future for herself in this town.

It doesn’t matter. She joins the army, and that’s that. She hugs her sisters goodbye, and ruffles her brother’s hair. She kisses her parents, and she slings her bag over shoulder, and she walks out of the house backwards, waving and smiling. David never looked back. She does.

She’s a decent soldier; she follows orders, she has a bit of a knack for surviving tricky situations, and she gets good scores on hand to hand, even if her instructors always scold her for putting in some of her old wrestling flourishes. They tell her those will get her killed one day.

And then she gets sent to Chorus.

Chorus is in the middle of nowhere, a tiny little pocket of space littered with alien artifacts.

They go to Chorus to retrieve some artifacts, and while they’re there, war breaks out. Martha stays. Most of her squad does, in the end. They argue. They split. Their squad fractures into tiny pieces. Some run away, some switch sides, and yet, somehow, it doesn’t matter.

By the end of the month Martha’s the only survivor of her entire fucking squad.  

She joins the Federal Army of Chorus, and does her goddamn job. She learns more about war on Chorus even more than she’d ever learned on other fields of battle out there in space. She moves away from decent into _good_. She soon gets assigned squads of her own, and usually, her people come out all right. But people began to notice that _she_ always comes out, even if her people don’t. Her squads begin to joke she is immortal, and she hates it, because it just means that she is surrounded by the dead.

She takes a bullet to the helmet, and falls into a coma, but she wakes up. She blows up a rebel compound with herself still inside, and she comes out with her armor singed and a huge scar along her right side. She gets run over by a tank and only gets a sprained ankle to show for it. The legends get told over and over again, and they get bigger with each telling, and before long people swear that Martha can re-grow lost limbs and is bullet proof and is secretly half alien.

(She thinks of herself more like a cockroach in the safety of her mind; nasty and crude but really fucking hard to kill.)

She gains a reputation for a dark laugh that cracks like a whip and a smile with too many teeth and a voice that insults more often than not. She isn’t pleasant. She isn’t nice. There are no sisters to cool her boiling temper in this world, no smooth wooden grains to run under her hands until grief fades away, no dog to bury her face in until she can see good things in the world again. On Chorus there is only death, and Martha feels herself shriveling up inside, but she doesn’t even care, because she is _alive_ , and she is going to drag her people through it with her.   

She meets Locus; a cold asshole, but he’s professional, and he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with her, especially in the early days. She’s a real soldier, unlike most of the others. She has training and went through boot camp, and knows exactly what you do when an Elite charges you with one of those fucking plasma swords. She shrugs, and doesn’t care about him—he doesn’t react to her foul mouth and barking insults at the enemy the whole time, so there are worse people to be stuck in a trench with.

Martha keeps living, and on Chorus, that is a rare thing. She rises through the ranks—or more like the ranks fall around her, leaving her pathetic rank more and more impressive as the months wear on—until one day, there is a gunshot, and Martha becomes a general.

She looks at people saluting her, and she sees hope in some of their eyes, because she’s the _survivor_ , surely she can drag them through this, and she scowls.

She’s a cockroach, and they don’t see that it’s not contagious, that they’re all going to die, and all this means is that she’s going to see everyone under her command die around her and accumulate even more scars.

“Stop staring, you look like a fish.” She kneels next to the body of her predecessor, and she looks up. “Go get Doctor Grey!” She barks, and she tries not to feel like she’s about to be crushed by the weight of everything.

Soon, she is the General. Just the General—no one can remember her last name, and Martha stops correcting people on it. She is the General. Harsh, angry, proud, and bitter. But _alive_.

* * *

Locus hears the shouting outside.

“General, they’re not secured—”

“Let me through, Private,” The General’s voice is harsh as ever, but there’s something Locus hasn’t heard before. Perhaps she’s angry that the mission went did not go as planned. But missions had gone bad before, and Locus had never heard her like this.

She stomps in, barely acknowledging Locus before she turns her attention to the Simulation Troopers and Washington.

“Frank?” She says, and that’s when Locus realizes that they have been missing something very important.

“How do you know my name?” The pink soldier demands, and suddenly, the General _laughs_.

Locus has heard the General laugh before—a harsh, loud, brief sound, made rarely, but he’s heard it. It’s nothing like this. It sounds _relieved_.

Then the General removes her helmet, and Locus knows that something is very wrong. The General is paranoid; she never removes her helmet except in her own quarters since she’s become General. Locus thinks he’s seen her face less than three times in her entire time as leader of the Federal Amy.

But she’s taking it out in front of potentially hostile forces, and nothing about that makes sense.

“Martha!” The pink soldier cries out, and then he’s launching himself at the General, and the two of them are embracing, and Locus knows he needs to call Control _now_.

“What the Sam-hell is going on here?” The Sergeant cries out, while Agent Washington is standing very still.

The General releases the pink simulation trooper—Donut, Locus thinks, the absurdity of the name matching everything he knows about the man—and takes a step back, brown eyes sharp as she stares at the two other soldiers.

Her helmet goes back on in quick, efficient movement, and she assumes parade rest. “Well,” she says. “Looks like this was a shit-show, wasn’t it Locus?”

Locus glowers beneath his helmet. The General’s crassness is irritating at the best of times. And he’s never been fond of it when she turns her foul mouth on him. Usually she maintains a healthy enough respect for him not to, but after his perceived failure, he knew she’d take the opportunity.

“Sir, there were unexpected developments,” he says, hating how it sounds like an excuse, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s not really his employer.

“Like Felix, I know. I read your report.” She crosses her arms, her focus returning to the troopers. “My name is General Martha—”

“Donut! How do you know this woman?” The Sergeant interrupts, which irritates Locus, because, although he will never admit it, he can’t remember the General’s last name. The fact that Felix refers to only as ‘Medusa’ (a common nickname for her amongst the New Republic) does not help matters.

“Sarge!” Private Donut is bouncing in place. “This is Martha! My big sister!”

Locus stares.

He _knows_ the General’s last name isn’t Donut, absurdly, is the first thought that enters his head. There’s no way that Felix would ever stop laughing about it if it was.

His second thought is that there is obviously a _very_ large problem with their intelligence, because this should have been in the briefing.

“Your _sister_?” Agent Washington finally speaks, his voice rising.

The General turns to him. “Agent Washington, correct?” She holds out her hand. “Welcome to the Federal Army of Chorus.”

That seems to push Agent Washington over the edge, and he begins demanding explanations for everything.

The General takes it in stride.

Locus pushes the Agent’s former silence out of his mind, as well as the way his voice cracked over the word “sister”.

* * *

Martha’s grown her hair out, is the thing Wash thinks, panicking, when he sees her face as she takes the helmet off.

His next thought is, _wait what_.

That’s also his third, fourth, and fifth thoughts.

She’s his sister.

She’s related to Donut.

His sister is on Chorus.

His sister is a general.

Nothing makes sense, none of the dots are connecting, and Wash feels like he’s on the verge of a panic attack for three days.

Then he manages to catch Donut alone.

“Oh, _hey_ Wash!” Donut says, cheerfully. How he can talk like that to Wash after Wash shot him—oh god, he _shot Donut,_ Donut who might be… he cuts that thought off, he files it away for later.

“Look,” Wash says desperately, “This is going to be… weird.”

“That’s okay!” Donut says cheerfully. “I’m into all sorts of weird stuff! There’s nothing to be ashamed of!”

Wash stares at Donut for a moment. “Right.” He takes a deep breath. “This is—look, do you have any other siblings besides Mar—besides the General?”

“Oh, yeah!” Donut starts bouncing again, and it’s reminding him of Ellie, and Wash doesn’t know how to handle this. “There’s David—he’s MIA, and then there’s Mitch, then there’s Jackie!” He nods. “You know Wash, it’s good that you’re looking for other options, because Martha’s not really into—”

“Anyone,” Wash finishes, dully.

(Martha had announced that she was “never going to date anyone _ever_ ” after Mitch’s disastrous homecoming date. Wash is unsurprised she never changed her mind about that.)

“Nope! She’s a double A!” Wash stares at Donut uncomfortably for a moment.

“Asexual and aromantic?” he asks, slightly desperate.

Donut tilts his head. “What else would I have been talking about?”

“I—never mind. Look, I just…” Wash takes his helmet off. “My name is David,” he says. “And I think—”

“David!” Donut _squeals_. And then he has an entire soldier in power armor clinging to him like he’s a teddy bear, and Wash struggles to maintain his balance, since Donut has decided that his feet don’t have to touch the ground in order to hug Wash.

“Oh, _God_ , we need to go tell Martha! She’ll be so happy to see you!”

* * *

“Get the fuck out of here!”

Martha knows anger better than she knows her own name. She’s always angry these days. But seeing David’s face, alive and scarred and scared, boils the blood in her veins.

“Martha!” Frank says, trying to calm her down. But Frank was never as good at it as Jackie was, and Martha is out of practice being soothed by her family.

“I said, get _out_!” She ignores Frank, keeping her eyes firmly on David—no, Washington. His name is Washington. Even with a face with the same bright blue eyes as Jackie and Frank, even with the freckles that decorate all of their faces, even with the same ridiculous flop of blonde hair, now shot with grey. When he doesn’t react fast enough, she grabs the datapad that has this morning’s troop statistics and throws it at him with everything she has.

She doesn’t have Frank’s amazing aim, but she’s still decent, and Washington has to duck, the datapad hitting the door behind him instead. Martha is seriously considering throwing her desk, even though she knows that Doyle will shriek at her afterwards. It might be worth it to get _rid of him_.

“Martha—” Frank takes a step towards her, but David— _Washington_ —shakes his head, and places his helmet back on his head.

“Yes General,” he says, and he leaves. Frank gives her a look that, once upon a time, could have made Martha feel bad, might have been able to make her call Washington back, to let him explain himself.

But Martha is a General, and she’s a soldier, and she’s a survivor, and she hasn’t become these things by melting at the sight of her little brother’s puppy dog eyes.

“Just—Frank, just go. Please.” She knows she sounds exhausted, and she hates it. She hates the way she softens around him, even now. She’s glad to see him, she’s delighted, but _shit_ , she wishes he was far, far away from all this mess, even if he and—her mind stumbles over Washington’s name—and the others might mean this war ends faster.

Frank frowns at her, but he leaves, barely remembering to put his helmet back on.

Shortly after, Doyle pokes his head in, shaking in the way that means Locus is here. It’s taken Martha years, but she’s learned to read Doyle’s different terrors. “General—”

“Send him in, Doyle,” she says with a sigh. She wonders what Locus thought about that explosion. Not that she particularly cares about the mercenary’s opinion, but he’s easier to work with when he respects whoever he works for. He respects her more than her predecessor, she knows that much. He makes a lot less ominous sounding sentences. Although, come to think of it, that might be because she’s less terrified of him. She shrugs, not caring, and picks up her chair, straightening it.

Locus pauses in the doorway, examining the room. She wonders what he sees, with those sniper’s eyes. He steps over the datapad, and he gives her a measuring look.

Martha sighs and doesn’t answer his unspoken questions. Instead, she focuses on drawing up patrol schedules.

There’s too much to be done.

* * *

The curiosity that was the General’s outburst annoys Locus more than it should. Agent Washington is competent. He doesn’t see why the General is tense around the Freelancer. And the tension doesn’t go away. She’s furious in a way that Locus has rarely seen, often flat out hostile to the man.

Usually the General is sensible when it comes to angering people she needs, and she needs Washington. But Washington doesn’t seem to even take offense at her harshness. He doesn’t like it, that much is clear, but he soldiers on, a professional to his core. Locus approves, although he’s surprised that the man is willing to take such abuse from someone as mediocre as the General.

He reads over the dossier they have on Agent Washington, and thinks he finds the answer; Agent Washington is reported to have shot and killed one Franklin Delano Donut (a name which is one of the most ridiculous things that Locus has ever heard, and he’s spent years in Felix’s company). If the General learned about that, it might explain her ire. But why Washington would feel the need to tell the General about that is beyond Locus.

He suspects the answer might have to come from the pink simulation trooper. The General is tight-lipped about the subject of Agent Washington, and the Freelancer hates him with a surprising ferocity.

Luckily, it seems that, as cautious and quiet about her personal life the General is, her brother is just as obnoxiously fond of overshare. It doesn’t take long for Locus to find what he’s looking for.

He stands very still, cloaked, and listens to the man prattle for ages about nonsense, while the robot insults him and the Sergeant ignores him. Only Washington seems to listen to him, with a surprising patience. Locus wonders if Washington feels that he owes Donut a debt for shooting him.

“And then Mitch _throws_ the entire pumpkin!” Donut says, moving his hands animatedly. “She picks up the entire thing, and she throws it at the guy so hard that he goes _flying_.”

“Jackie must not have liked that,” Washington says. Locus frowns, unsure of who they’re talking about.

“She kept trying to get Mitch to stop fighting for her,” Donut says. “But Mitch always said someone had to pick up the slack, with you gone.”

Locus freezes. Washington sighs.

“I’m just amazed that Mitch was willing to throw one of her precious vegetables.”

“Las calabazas son las frutas, idiota,” the robot says, proving that he actually was listening instead of just interrupting with random insults every few sentences.

Locus retreats back to his quarters. Once he’s there, he checks the dossier of Franklin Delano Donut—the updated one, with family information as well as his abysmal service record.

Sure enough, there’s a listing for an older brother in addition to his three sisters. A man named David, declared MIA several years ago. Locus notices the date that he’d gone missing corresponds with Agent Washington’s recruitment to Project Freelancer.

He sets down the dossier and thinks.

The General is a cold woman who has never taken betrayals—perceived or otherwise—well. When Felix had managed to convince one of the General’s few friends to try to assassinate her, the General had nearly created a real faction to depose her trying to find the supposed group that Locus had been forced to fabricate in order to justify the repeated assassination attempts.

Learning that her brother had pretended to be dead is something that the General would not take lightly.

He calls it into Control, mentioning his suspicions. He gets confirmation soon enough. Control is pleased by his initiative—the real identity of a Freelancer is always a good thing to know. Locus says nothing. Felix finds the situation hilarious.

“Oh man, so Wash will just roll over and take it when his sister gives him shit?” Felix laughs. He shouldn’t even be calling Locus, but Felix will always throw protocol out of the window for the sake of a joke. “Man! This is just too great!”

Locus says nothing. It’s a coincidence. A truly unfortunate one that causes complications, but it’s manageable.

When they were trying to decide whether they should go through their plan to assassinate the previous leader of the Federal Army, Locus had investigated their would-be-replacement.

They had her military records; not outstanding, but acceptable. A few demerits for backtalk and a handful of comments about her vitriol and fondness for insults. Hand to hand combat scores were surprisingly high, but explainable when her wrestling career was taken into account. Weapons of choice included grenades and the pistol, with range scores that fell into an above average percentile. Family included two brothers in the service, one MIA, presumed dead, one serving in the Simulation program, with two sisters back home. Locus had passed over her family records, not even sparing the pictures he’d found in her bag a single glance.

He regrets that now, as the pieces have fallen into place.

The General doesn’t forgive Agent Washington. She remains cold and distant, although she utilizes him practically. She has him train squads and lead patrols, and utilizes his knowledge to work intelligence when she needs to. But she tends to send Doyle to those meetings instead of going herself, and she still will spew her vitriol at Washington at the slightest provocation. But every now and then, Locus catches her watching him, or quietly arranging him to not get night shift if Washington has had trouble sleeping. She’s still soft. Washington is just as much a weakness for her as Donut, as much as she tries to hide it. .

Even the normal soldiers have begun to notice her increased aggravation, and it’s causing concern in the ranks. The Federal Army of Chorus is less superstitious about their General than the New Republic is, but there are still plenty of rumors. (Felix’s responsibility, no doubt, to annoy Locus. The man takes too much enjoyment out of crafting ridiculous tales about the General.)

Locus goes to report to the General, still furious at Felix for his failure to stop the Simulation Troopers from getting the information. Felix says he can stop the Captains from being ready to be permitted to make the assault, but Locus, unlike Felix, does not buy that their service record is entirely a fluke. There is something there. It’s concerning.

If they reunite, everything goes to pieces.

“Locus,” she says, looking up at him.

“General,” he says curtly, closing the door behind him so he doesn’t have to listen to Doyle’s nervous prattling. Locus is accustomed to fear, but Doyle’s cowardice is often infuriating. Yet another reason to put a stop to Felix’s ridiculously named “Operation Perseus.” If she dies, Doyle takes her place as General.

“Any word from the mountain base?” She asks, straight to business. She’s an improvement over the previous general for her dislike of small talk alone.

He nods. “Unfortunately, it seems that the Rebels managed to infiltrate it and plant explosives.”

Locus watches as the General freezes, before jumping to her feet, shouting. “ _Doyle_!”

“Yes General?” The secretary darts in.

“Get me a list of the troops at the mountain base, _now_ ,” the General says grimly. “I’ve got calls to make.” She spins back to Locus. “Any word on survivors?”

“None, General,” he says. He’d ensured that himself. More worrying, to his mind, information Lavernius Tucker recovered, despite Felix’s best efforts. Unfortunately, he doubts he can convince the General to change her mind about sending the soldiers there.

“Damn it!” The General punches the wall, then she bows her head, as if she’s mourning. There’s a long silence before she finally speaks, straightening her posture and walking back towards her desk. “Thank you Locus. Is there anything else?”

“I have concerns that some of the data was compromised there,” he says. He has to try, at least.

“Shit,” she hisses. “Any idea what information?”

“The mercenary was there,” he says. “He might have been after information about the Simulation Troopers.”

“One of these days, I am going to rip that asshole limb from limb, and then I’m going to feed him into a woodchipper. Preferably while still alive,” the General mutters, picking up a datapad.

Locus waits for her to finish her ridiculous threats. Felix finds it hilarious that the General hates him as much as he hates her, but he just thinks it’s arrogant of the General to think that she could kill Felix.

She sighs. “We can’t risk not sending them. We don’t know what they know, and that base is fairly secure. We’ll have to trust that they can handle themselves.”

“General?” Doyle says, subdued. “I have the list.”

She sighs. “Give that here, Doyle. Do you have their families there as well?”

“Yes ma’am,” Doyle nods.

“Great,” she says. “Worst damn part of this job,” she mutters.

“Worse than the assassins, ma’am?” Doyle asks politely.

“At least I can punch assassins,” the General says. Which is, again, ridiculous, because Locus never lets them get close enough for her to punch. If she dies, Doyle becomes General. That is an unacceptable situation, no matter how funny Felix thinks it would be.

* * *

There’s a lot of things that Tucker hates about being separated from the others. One is that, without Wash or Church, _he’s_ in charge of Caboose and his bullshit.  

The second is that he also doesn’t really have anyone to bitch to whenever stupid shit goes down.

They’re running some drills with the lieutenants, but they’re not actually _doing_ anything, because Tucker and the others have run out of ideas. Felix has wandered in, back from whatever mission he was on, and the lieutenants are all bombarding him with questions.

“Did you see her?” Palomo pesters. “Everyone says she was supposed to be there!”

“Did she really rip out Jonathan’s throat with her bare hands?” Jensen asks.

“No guys,” Felix laughs, brushing them off easily. “No Medusa today. She’s still keeping close to Armonia, as far as we can tell.”

“What’s a Medusa?” Tucker asks.

“The leader of the Federal Army,” Felix says with a shrug. “Mean bitch.”

“They say she killed the last general so she could take his place!” Palomo says. “With a shovel and three boxes of shrimp!”

“She’th thuppothed to turn people into _stone_!” Jensen adds. “So she never takes her helmet off! _Ever_!”

Tucker stares. Felix laughs. “The rumors get a bit out of control. She’s just…”

“Really a bitch?” Tucker offers.

“And a good shot,” Felix says wryly. “Back before she was a general, I encountered her a few times. She’s no Freelancer but she doesn’t stay down.”

“She’s supposed to be _immortal_ ,” Palomo whispers. “They say that once, someone cut off her head, and then her head grew a new body and her body grew a new head and now there’s _two of her_.”

“Shut up Palomo,” Tucker says.

Felix snorts. “Like I said. The rumors get a bit out of hand.”

“Didn’t you stab her once?” Bitters asks, sounding almost interested.

Felix shrugs, almost casually. “It was a glancing blow. She got lucky. If she didn’t have Locus, she’d be dead by now.”

“They say she kills a prisoner every day and drinks their blood!” Palomo says. Tucker tries not to flinch, thinking about Wash and the others. It’s bullshit, he knows, but rumors usually come from _somewhere_.

“I thought she was a snake-lady,” Caboose says, completely serious. “Not a vampire-lady.”

“Dude,” Grif says, pointing at Palomo. “Don’t even joke about vampires.”

“What if she’s a vampire with snakes for hair who can turn into a bat?” Tucker can’t resist needling Grif and Simmons, who shudder in unison.

When the lieutenants move away, Felix leans in, almost conspiratorially. “Rumor has it, the General’s been taking a pretty personal interest in your friends.”

“Thought you said the rumors were out of control,” Tucker says, but there’s something odd happening to his heart. It’s going too fast.

“Well. Most of them are. She’s human alright,” Felix says. “She bleeds like the rest. But she _is_ pretty vicious. Overheard a few Feds talking the other day. She’s apparently been spending a lot of time with Agent Washington, and it seems like she doesn’t like him very much.” He shakes his head.

Tucker’s hands curl into fists.

Wash is tough, he knows that. Wash can look after himself. But he’s also going to be looking after Sarge and Donut, and Wash is fucking _terrible_ about actually making sure he doesn’t get hurt. So, actually, scratch the looking after himself part. He _can_. He just _doesn’t_.

And Kimball says the Feds don’t particularly care about laws when it comes to prisoners. It’s not too much of a stretch to think that this General is torturing them.

Tucker seems to be having trouble breathing.

“I mean, you’ll probably never meet her,” Felix sighs. He places a comforting hand on Tucker’s arm. “But don’t let the rumors scare you, Tucker. A bullet will kill her just as much as anyone. Or a sword, I guess.”

Tucker glances at his sword, and turns it on. “Hell yeah,” he says with a confidence he doesn’t feel, and Felix laughs.

* * *

When Martha had been seventeen years old, they’d given her family a flag and told her that her brother was dead.

Three days later, she was eighteen, and she’d signed up herself.

When she was a kid, David had been her hero. He was strong and tough and he _got her_. He got the fact that no, sometimes people had to be punched, even if it meant trips to the principal’s office and bruises. He got that sometimes you needed to take off and climb a tree for a few hours. He’d shown her their place in the woods nearby, where they would go after bad fights and bandage their knuckles and try to get their stories straight. They’d never even brought Mitch there. It was _theirs_.

After he’d died, Martha had only gone back once, to bury the small carving knife he’d sent her for her birthday before his ship went down.

But he isn’t dead. He isn’t even missing. He never had been.

Instead, he’s alive, and working for her, and Martha has never felt so betrayed. He was supposed to be _better_ , he was supposed to be family. How dare he not say anything, never try to contact Mitch or Jackie, even if she never would have learned herself because of the war. How dare he not speak up the minute she took her helmet off, how dare he bide his time.

Her big brother would never have done that to her.

She can’t admit that to herself.

David was better than that. He’d been a _hero_. He’d fought the good fight, he hadn’t gotten his hands dirty. He was supposed to be the good one.

He wasn’t supposed to be like her.

“Agent Washington,” she says.

“General,” he says back, saluting her even though he’s not under her command.  

She pulls up the image of the base. “I need you and… your men,” she says, even though his role as leader is often hotly contested, at least according to Lopez. “I need you to go to this base. Doctor Grey will be accompanying you.”

Washington nods. He’s a good soldier, she thinks bitterly. So good he’d never disobeyed orders to contact them. No wonder Locus likes him.

(She can’t help but be bemused by that most days, since Washington hates Locus with a passion that reminds her of David’s old hatred of the town bullies. Given that Washington blames Locus for being separated from his friends, she doesn’t really blame him.

And Locus can be a bit of a cold bastard. But he’s damn useful. Without him, everything would be in even more pieces than it already is.)

“Washington,” she says, as he prepares to leave. “We believe the rebels might know you’re going to be there. There’s a possibility they might try to kidnap you. Or use your friends to try to get you to cooperate.”

His shoulders are tense. “I won’t betray you, General,” he says.

Martha rolls her eyes. “You expect me to believe that you won’t go with them if they hold Tucker at gunpoint?” He flat out freezes at that. She wonders if Frank’s long rambles about Tucker and Washington’s relationship has some grounds in reality. “I don’t care. I just want you to be ready.”

“For what, exactly?” Washington demands. Martha can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s still as a statue, not giving her any cues to go off. She’s never heard his voice like that before.

For a moment, she stops to wonder what he thinks she is about to say.

“To give Felix a good kick in the balls if you see him,” she says, crossing her arms. “He’s a fucking asshole.”

Washington makes a noise that’s close to a laugh, which he quickly turns into a cough. She wonders if his determination not to laugh is because it’s her, or because he’s trying to be professional. She doesn’t really care.

(She wonders how often she’ll have to say it in order to believe it.)

She does hope he actually does kick him though. She’d love to see that tangerine horsefucker go down like a pile of bricks.

“You take Felix out, I doubt the rebels can do anything to your friends on their own. Kimball’s a coward, she never leaves her bunker if she can help it, and Locus says your friends are being held by a lot of people, but I don’t doubt you can take them.” Washington is very efficient, Martha knows. He should be able to do it.

He nods. “I won’t let you down,” he says. For a moment he sounds like David the brother instead of Washington the soldier, and she wants to call him back. She wants to say “be careful.”

Instead, she gives him a curt nod back. “Dismissed, Agent Washington.”

In thirty-six hours she will think her brother is dead.

She wishes more than anything that she’d called out to him.

* * *

Locus tells the General about the deaths of the Reds and Blues, and he watches her face very carefully, since she’s not wearing her helmet. He’s curious about her reaction. Will the hardness win or the rare softness she exposes around her brothers triumph? He’s certain Agent Washington hasn’t even realized it, but it’s there, even when she rails against him.

She goes very, very still for a moment, and then hot, furious anger rises across her face.

Locus can’t help but stare behind the safety of his helmet as she overturns her desk with a single gesture, sending the contents flying everywhere.

He has seen the General after horrifying losses, tragic defeats, and after attempts on her own life. He has seen her angry. He has seen her mourning. He has never seen her like this—skin so pale that the ghosts of old freckles are visible, her voice cracking in rage as it rises higher than he’s ever heard, and, most distinctly, the _threats_.

She hates the New Republic. She has for years. Locus knows this well. He’s fostered that hatred; it was always the plan. But this is a new depth that he’s never seen.

“They’re dead,” she says, turning to him, once the more vicious threats are finished, fire blazing in her eyes. There aren’t any tears. “All of them.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath, doubtlessly trying to steady herself. “Did you see who killed them?”

Locus doesn’t hesitate for a single moment before he responds. “They were already dead when I arrived, General.”

There’s a long, dark pause. When she speaks, the fire in her eyes is banked to a dangerous calm and her voice sounds deeper and flatter than he’s heard it before.

Locus has never particularly thought of the General as a dangerous woman. She’s a woman with the leadership skills far below what a general should have, with a lucky streak and acceptable fighting skills.

In this moment, however, he thinks he sees why people are afraid of her.

“Guess I’ll try to beat the answer out of Kimball when I meet her.” She reaches for her helmet. “I’ll go start getting things ready for the ambush.” She steps over her own overturned desk with a deliberate calm. “I’ll see you on the other side, Locus. Do what you need to do.”

“Sir,” he says, watching her as she strides out of her office to prepare.  

Not for the first time, Locus wishes they had split up the teams differently. Things were easier before family got involved.

* * *

“So,” the General holds the gun with an unnerving confidence, and it’s pointed right at Kimball. “You’re Kimball, huh?”

“And you’re the General,” Kimball says, trying to keep herself from boiling over and getting her people killed.

“I can’t believe you were actually stupid enough to try to come here. What did you think, you could kick us while we were down?”

The General is a legend. Kimball’s heard the stories, just like the rest of the New Republic. Bloodthirsty, ruthless, a dictator, so terrifying and cruel that even her own people hate her and try to kill her on a regular basis.

In reality, the General seems rather on the shorter side. Her armor is standard Fed gear, with a golden colored trim to denote that she’s an officer.

The lower ranks claim she’s immortal. They say she can’t take off her armor; that it’s fused to her skin in some twisted army experiment. They call her Medusa. She’s killed thousands. She’s a tyrant and a monster and she’s everything Kimball stands against.

But Kimball had never thought that she’d just have the Reds and Blues executed where they stood, to prove a point. No demands for ransom, no offers of surrender. Felix had said she’d just given the order without blinking the minute she realized that they wouldn’t side with her. Cold, merciless, petty, _cruel_.

“Tell you what,” the General says, leaning forward. “If you tell me who pulled the trigger, I’ll make it quick.” It sounds like a genuine offer, but the words are nonsense.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you tyrannical—” Kimball snarls, her grip on her own gun numbingly tight. She curses Felix’s absence more than ever. She _needs_ him, why isn’t he here with her for this? Why is he gone, today of all days?

“Oh, seriously? Are you still going with the righteous rebel thing _now_?” The General raises her gun just slightly, shifting her aim from Kimball’s chest to her head. “You killed my family, Kimball. Or had them killed. I don’t particularly care right now. I’m sure someone will tell me who pulled the trigger on the Reds and Blues soon enough.”

Kimball felt like ice had been pumped into her blood. “What are you talking about?” She demands, her mouth dry as the desert as she tries to understand what it is that the General is saying. “ _You_ killed the Reds and Blues when—”

Her thoughts are derailed as gunfire and explosions begin to ricochet through the entirety of the city.

“Fuck!” the General shouts, and Kimball barely has time to roll out of the way before another burst of gunfire heads her way.

She’s not going to go down hiding behind a warthog. Medusa wants her? Kimball will take the fight to her.

“Cover me!” She snaps to the man nearest to her, and she charges up the staircase, her pistol in hand.

The minute she gets close enough, the General spins to face her. Kimball has no idea what her face looks like under that helmet, but she gets the unsettling idea that the General is smiling.

“You’re mine,” the General hisses, and Kimball can’t help but blink in shock when the other woman physically _charges her_.

She’s strong. Remarkably strong. She grabs Kimball’s arm, throws Kimball over her shoulder like she weighs absolutely nothing, and Kimball goes flying through the air, colliding with the wall. She scrambles to her feet, dizzy and breathless and her back hurting in so many ways, aiming her gun and pulling the trigger as quickly as she can.

The woman ducks behind cover, and then returns fire, moving closer and closer with every burst. There’s a deadly way she holds herself, and Kimball remembers that Medusa is supposed to be a genuine soldier, from the UNSC. She doesn’t know if that rumor is even remotely true, but it’s echoing in her mind right now, and she hates the other woman with every bone in her body.

Kimball will not run. She will not die with a bullet in the back. She’s going to take this so-called immortal with her.

She gets to her feet, and the two of them stand, inches away from each other, guns outstretched, when the nearby screen flickers to life and a video begins to play.

And Felix begins to speak.

“That fucking camouflage fetishist,” the General breathes when Locus’s role in all this becomes clear. Kimball nearly laughs.

They call the cease fire without even looking at each other, and then both of them have other priorities.

“Tucker? _Tucker_?” Kimball calls. Meanwhile, the General is doing the same thing.

“Washington? Donut? Sarge? Lopez? Answer me, goddamnit! Are you alive? _David_? _Frank_?”

Kimball spares her former enemy a glance, and she wonders what’s going on before she keeps trying to hail the Captains.

* * *

“You’re alive!” Martha throws herself at Donut, and Wash watches as Donut hugs her back tightly. They’re both in armor; he can’t see their faces, but he can picture it perfectly. He knows what expressions they’re both making.

He stands to the side, watching. Tucker and the others are completely confused.

She finally lets go, and turns to him. “Agent Washington,” she says with a curt nod. He’s not sure what her face is like at this moment.  

“General,” he nods back. He keeps his voice clipped. Professional. As if she was just another superior officer, not his little sister.

“If you ever let me think you’re dead again, I will shoot you myself,” she snaps, and Wash thinks he hears a jagged edge to her voice. Wash nods without hesitation. He deserved that.

She turns away.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she says, so softly Wash thinks he might be imagining it. Then she turns back to Sarge before he can respond. “Sergeant. Why don’t you introduce me to the rest of your men?”

“Yes General!” Sarge seems to be perfectly content.

“Wait, who the fuck are you?” Grif demands.

“I’m General Martha—”

“Are you blind, Grif? She’s my sister!” Donut says. “Can’t you see the family resemblance?”

“No Donut, I can’t see the family resemblance, because _you’re both in full armor_!” Grif points at Wash and then at Martha. “And what the fuck was that?”

Wash stiffens, and so does Martha, but Donut ignores the tensions in the room to cheerfully declare. “Oh, we figured out that Wash was our long-lost, not actually dead older brother!”

There’s a ringing silence. Wash tries to decide if he can make a break for it.

From the gurney where Doctor Grey is currently fussing over Tucker, he can start to hear the ringing sound of Tucker’s laughter.

“But he fucking—” Donut actually tackles Simmons before he can say anything more damaging. Like about Wash shooting Donut. That’s on the list of things Wash and Donut have agreed to _never_ tell Martha about.

Martha stares as the Reds fall into a small brawl on the ground, Grif and Lopez accidentally joining in when Donut kicks out and knocks them down. “Is this… normal?” She asks, more to the room at large than Wash.

“Unfortunately,” Carolina says wryly. She’s giving Wash a _look_ that he doesn’t particularly like Meanwhile Epsilon flickers into existence, pushing himself forward to investigate Martha.

“So, you’re Martha?” He sounds honestly curious. Wash isn’t really surprised that Epsilon knows about her.

She stares at him, seemingly unsurprised by the presence of an AI. “You expect me to believe that Washington acknowledged my existence to you?”

Wash flinches.

Epsilon seems taken aback. “Ah. Well. Not exactly.”

Martha glances at Carolina, still stiff as a board. Carolina, on the other hand, simply looks… curious. “You’re Agent Carolina?”

“That’s right. This is Epsilon.”

Martha glances at the AI, tilting her helmet to one side. “I thought he’d be… bigger.”

Wash had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the memories from overwhelming him. Church, meanwhile, splutters furiously. Carolina just seems vaguely amused.

“C’mon, Martha!” Donut says cheerfully. The Reds have seemingly resolved their differences. Grif and Simmons are still lying on top of each other, arguing about something. “It’s not the size that matters, it’s how you use it!”

Martha lets out a faint groan, which is echoed by Grif and Simmons.

“General,” the woman who’s been introduced as Kimball says, walking up to them. Her armor is slightly dented and dirty, but she holds herself with an authority that’s undeniable. He can see why Tucker and the others like her. “We need to evac Captain Tucker _now_ , otherwise your Doctor Grey doesn’t think he’ll make it. Will you be able to get the rest of them to Armonia?”

“Of course,” Martha says evenly.

“Felix and Locus got away?” She asks Wash, while Kimball goes back to the medical pelican to accompany Tucker back to base. He’s surprised Martha was willing to let the former enemy just move in, but apparently her fury at being tricked overcomes all grudges but the one she’s holding against him.

“Yes,” Wash confirms with a nod.

Martha lets out a hiss. “I’m trying to come up with a creative way to kill them, but I’m stuck after I get to shoving them out of an airlock.”

“Ooh, ooh!” Caboose raises his hand, and Wash closes his eyes. “Have you considered _crayons_ , Miss General Washington?”

She stares at him, bemused. “You’re Captain Caboose, aren’t you?” Her voice sounds almost amused, softer than Wash has heard in ages.

“Yes General Washingtub!”

“I’ll certainly take crayons into consideration,” she says. “Now, let’s get going.” She glances at Carolina. “Would you walk with me, Agent?”

“Yes, sir,” Carolina says, not saluting, but still respectful. Martha nods, and the two of them walk away together.

Something in Wash’s gut tells him that introducing the two of them is a mistake. He hopes he won’t regret this later.

* * *

Vanessa Kimball encounters General Martha again in her office.

“So this Control wants us all to kill each other because this planet has alien artifacts on it?” The General is saying, and Kimball doesn’t even hesitate before pushing the door open.

“That’s right,” Agent Carolina says.

The General’s helmet is off, revealing a head of curly brown hair in a knotted, tangled mess and brown eyes. She’s sitting on the floor, knees against her chest, a fork scooping out a ration of something rather nasty looking that’s probably some variation of field rations. Agent Carolina sits across from her cross-legged, also eating.

“That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard,” the General declares. “And my brother thinks he speaks Spanish.”

“Stupid or not, it’s what they’re doing,” Kimball says, tense. The General turns her eyes towards her, almost lazily. She doesn’t get up, but Kimball notices her tensing.

“General Kimball,” she says. Her eyes don’t leave Kimball.

“General—” Kimball pauses, realizing she doesn’t know her last name.

“Don’t worry about it,” the other woman scowls. “No one can remember my last name. Even my brothers, apparently, since they’re going by pseudonyms. Call me Martha. Easier for everyone that way.”

“Your brothers?” Kimball asks with a blink.

Martha frowns at her. “You didn’t know? Washington and Donut are my brothers.”

Kimball pauses at that. She compares what Tucker has told her about Agent Washington and Franklin Donut to what she knows about Martha. “Well,” she says. “That certainly explains your determination to kill me.”

“Oh no, I’ve wanted to kill you for ages,” Martha says airily, shoving a forkful of food into her mouth. “Thinking you had them killed just made me want to keep you alive longer so I could beat the names of the people who killed them out of you.” Kimball and Carolina both look at her. Martha frowns. “What?”

“That’s… not something you usually say to your current ally,” Carolina points out. Kimball thinks she’s trying not to laugh.

“Pretending we weren’t all just trying to murder each other yesterday isn’t realistic,” Martha says. “We’ve got a common enemy right now. That’s probably enough for a while.”

“We can’t afford infighting,” Carolina says warningly.

“Doesn’t mean we have to pussyfoot around the fact that we’ve been at war for years,” Martha says. “It won’t just go away because the traitorous assholes and their sugar daddy want us all to conveniently die.”

Kimball chokes slightly. “ _What_?”

“Yeah, she does that a lot,” Epsilon appears. Martha flips him off.

“Those fuck faces don’t deserve names,” she says darkly. “And what? He totally is their sugar daddy.”

“Please stop saying that, I’m seeing the resemblance to Donut right now, and it disturbs me deeply,” Epsilon says.

Martha raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize an AI could get flustered so easily.”

“You’d be surprised,” Carolina says.

“Don’t _help her_!” Epsilon cries.

Martha turns her attention back to Kimball. “Pull up a seat if you want,” she offers, even though the only chair that Kimball can see is behind the desk. “I’ve got enough rations to last a month in here.”

“Why do you stock up so much?” Kimball asks with a frown, but she sits.

“My food’s been poisoned four times this past year alone,” Martha says. “Honestly, it’s the most annoying kind of assassination attempts.”

“How often did you nearly get assassinated?” Kimball was surprised those rumors were grounded in reality.

“Fairly often. Doyle has a spreadsheet somewhere,” Martha says with a shrug. Kimball wonders who Doyle is. “I’m not popular. Luckily, they’ve let off since the Reds and Blues arrived. Boosted my numbers a bit or something. Helps morale.”

“Actually, the attempts stopped because Control wanted you alive for the final stages, so Felix had to stop paying people off,” Epsilon says.

Martha drops her fork, blanching. “ _What_?” Her voice rises and cracks.

“Felix has been paying them off for years, apparently. Operation Perseus or something.”

Martha picks up her fork and shovels another portion into her mouth. “What a _dick_.”

“Why would he do that?” Kimball asks, her stomach rolling at the reminder that Felix had so many agendas that he’d hidden from her for _years_. She remembers the way he’d talked about the General of the Federal Army of Chorus. What had been his motivation there? Had it been manipulation, or had he honestly just disliked Martha?

She knows she’ll never get answers that will make her feel better.

“Uh, honestly? It seems that he just wanted to annoy Locus.” Kimball blinks. Epsilon sounds almost apologetic.

“Are you _fucking kidding me?_ ” Martha hisses, eyes narrowing at Epsilon.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” The AI gives a small shrug.

“I’m bringing back the wood chipper,” Martha mutters. “I’ll put his lower half through, and then make him _eat it_.”

“That’s… graphic,” Kimball says.

“I have anger issues,” Martha waves a hand in the air. “Don’t worry. I’m sure someone else will kill him before I have time to find a wood chipper on this planet.”

“I think anger issues run in the family,” Epsilon says.

“Donut has anger issues?” Carolina asks.

“His issue is that he doesn’t _have_ anger.”

“Clearly you just haven’t caught him in the right mood,” Martha says. There’s a curve to her mouth that’s almost a real smile.  

Kimball pokes at the rations Martha has passed her. It looks basically the same as the ones they have back at the Rebel Base.

She wonders if they came from the same ship. She wonders how Felix and Locus decided to divide them up.

“We’re going to make them pay for this,” she says, fingers curling into a fist.

“Hell yeah,” Martha says, and this time the smile is definitely there.

* * *

Martha has a headache.

She’s spent years at war by now. She’s survived horrible things, and done worse. She’s ordered good soldiers to their deaths and killed without hesitation.

And it was all for nothing. Her allies betrayed her. The leader of the New Republic is currently in her office, drawing up shift rotations with Agent Carolina and Doyle.

And apparently the enemy soldiers she’s killed so many of are terrified kids who actually flinch whenever she raises her voice.

She’s working on a collaborative exercise. Some of the top soldiers from her army, and the Lieutenants from the Captains’ squads.

Right now, Lt. Palomo is brawling with Jones (pronounced Joanez for whatever reason). Washington is supervising, but he has his hands full with Jensen, who has managed to drop a set of barbells on Bitters.

Martha’s headache is getting worse, and she’s had _enough_. She rips off her helmet and storms over towards Palomo and Jones. She grabs Jones and rips him off Palomo, then grabs Palomo by the scruff of his neck and hauls him to his feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She shouts, and suddenly, the entire group of young soldiers are staring at her.

Bitters screams.

Suddenly, there are a lot less people in the room. The entire New Republic forces, apparently, booked it.

Martha looks at Wash. “Do you know what’s going on?” She demands.

“No, but I bet I know who does,” Wash says, nodding towards the four Captains, who have just arrived.

Martha narrows her eyes and puts her helmet back on. “Captain Tucker!” She takes deep satisfaction in the way that he flinches and the others step away from him. “Do you have an explanation for why your entire squad ran away screaming when I took off my helmet?”

Tucker stares at her, wide-eyed. “Your helmet _comes off_?”

“It’s a helmet, not my fucking head,” Martha snaps. Why is this surprising to people? Helmets come off. It’s a thing. Sure, she doesn’t do it too often, but still.

“Don’t the squads think you’re like an actual harpy? Turn people into stone and shit?” Grif says, looking bored already. “Oh shit, you should do that in front of Matthews! That would be fucking hilarious.”

“That’s a _gorgon_ , not a harpy, Grif!” Simmons corrects.

“Medusa,” Martha says, standing very still. Her mind is reeling. She’d known that she had that nickname—her own people use it occasionally, when they think she’s not in earshot. “They think I’m an actual Medusa.”

The captains nod.

Martha _laughs_ , like she hasn’t in years. It’s stupid, it’s irritating, it’s ridiculous, but it’s _funny_. She doubles over, clutching her stomach as she keeps laughing, and the three of them start to take steps backwards, probably looking for an escape.

She straightens just as quickly as she started laughing. “ _Kimball_!” She yells, even though she doubts the other general is in earshot. “What kind of fucking army are you running here? Your soldiers think I’m a fucking mythological monster?” She stomps off to go find Kimball to yell at her face to face.

* * *

Carolina comes to find him after a mission.

“How did it go?” Wash asks.

She grabs his arm, and he wonders why she seems so tense. “Martha’s injuries were worse than we thought. She just went into surgery.”

Wash freezes. “Martha was injured?”

Carolina stares at him. “You didn’t know?”

“No one told me!” Wash thinks his heart is in his throat. “What happened?”

“She got between Volleyball and a grenade. Shrapnel damage to her right side, broken arm was the initial prognosis, but Grey thinks there’s internal bleeding.”

Wash feels cold and numb. “I—”

“I’ll take over,” she says. “You go.”

Wash runs. Donut’s already there, curled up in one of the seats outside of surgery.

“I just heard. Is she alright?” She asks.

Donut seems to be shaking. Wash hesitates for a moment, before wrapping an arm around Donut’s shoulders.

“Doctor Grey said—” Donut stumbles over the next word, and starts over. “Doctor Grey says that the grenade filled all her holes.”

“Filled her _with_ holes,” Wash corrects automatically, tensing up as Donut leans against him.  “How bad was the damage?”

“Doctor Grey says that she’ll be fine,” Donut says, and Wash hears a sniff. Donut had been crying, he realizes. “She says that it’s the fifth time she’s had Martha under her.”

Wash decides to ignore that one, for his own mind’s sake. “How often does Martha get injured?”

“Doyle says she gets injured all the time,” Donut says.

Wash grits his teeth. “She’s a _general_. What was she even doing out on that mission anyway?”

“Martha has a lot of tension,” Donut says. “She needs a way to expend all that energy.”

“And getting herself killed is her solution?”

Donut shakes his head. “Martha won’t die,” he says with a confidence that can only come from a younger sibling. “I knew she wouldn’t. When they told us she was missing, I knew she’d be fine. She’s _Martha_.”

It’s times like this that Wash is reminded how young Donut is.

“I’m sure,” Wash says, but he spent most of his childhood helping Martha patch herself up after fights.

Donut might think his older siblings are invincible, but Wash knows very well how breakable they all are.

“Who told you that she was hurt?” He asks instead. He knows Donut is supposed to be in the armory right now.

“Oh, I got one of those alerts!” Donut says cheerfully. “Family injury thing, someone came and got me. It’s one of those paperwork things.”

Wash swallows. He didn’t get one of those. Which means Martha hasn’t put him down as her next of kin on her paperwork.

He wonders if she would even want him to be here.

But he doesn’t say anything. He just sits with Donut leaning against him, and waits with his little brother until Doctor Grey finally emerges, her armor slightly splattered in blood.

“You can go see her!” Doctor Grey tells them. “But don’t stress her out too much! We need to keep her blood pressure nice and low!”

Wash and Donut nod, and go inside.

Martha’s completely out of armor for once, and Wash’s breath hitches as he sees the mess of old scar tissue along her right arm. He’s willing to bet it also covers the entire right side of her body, hidden by the paper hospital gown she’s wearing. She’s covered in fresh bandages, and is propped up in bed, a datapad in her lap. Her left arm is in a sling, held against her chest. She’s scowling. But she’s alive, and that’s what really matters.

“You’re okay!” Donut says, beaming widely.

She squints at them both. Wash sees something flicker in her eyes. “Of course I am,” she says, crossly. “Sit down, I’m going to get a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

Donut beams, and sits down. Wash does too, after a moment. Donut starts chattering, telling Martha another story of his adventures back in Blood Gulch. So far it seems to involve a talking bomb and time travel. From Martha’s expression, it doesn’t make much sense to her either.

Eventually, Donut wanders off to go get Martha some food, leaving Wash and Martha alone. Martha turns her attention back to her datapad, pointedly ignoring Wash.

Wash makes himself speak first. “Why did Carolina have to tell me you were injured?”

Martha doesn’t even deign to look up. “Because I didn’t do the paperwork to get you classified as my brother.”

Wash reels back as if slapped. “ _Why_?”

“Thought you’d prefer it that way,” Martha says coldly. “Being a super-secret badass agent and all.”

Wash stands his ground. “You were _hurt_!”

“I didn’t realize you’d care!” Martha slams her datapad down hard, and finally faces him.

Wash stares at her, and it hurts more than he would have expected. “Of course I care!”

“Oh?” Martha says. “Tell me, Agent Washington. Did you even know I was in the army before you saw me here? Did you know that Mitch took over the farm? Did you know what major Jackie declared? Did you even know _Frank’s name_?”

Wash leaned forward. “I was cut off! I didn’t realize—”

“Is that what you tell yourself about shooting Frank too?” Martha says coldly. Wash freezes. “What, did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Martha—” He says, slowly.

“Whatever,” Martha says. “I don’t care.” There’s a hurt in her eyes that says otherwise.

“I was following orders,” Wash says, straightening his soldiers. “I thought you would’ve understood.”

“Oh, I do. I understand that you cut yourself off from us to be the good little soldier,” Martha says.

“It wasn’t my choice!” Wash yells. “I didn’t know that they’d told you guys I was dead for years!”

“And then? You came running home, right? You called us, told us you were okay?” Martha snaps, and Wash knows forgiveness isn’t coming today. It might never come. “No. Instead, you go and fucking _shoot Frank_.” She throws the datapad at him again, and this time Wash doesn’t duck. It smacks him right in the chest. “You promised you’d look after us,” she hisses, and Wash flinches. “Is that what your protection looks like these days?”

“Martha!” Donut is back. “Leave him alone!” He’s angry. Wash wonders why.

Martha leans back against her pillows again, face carefully blank. “Get out, Agent Washington.”

Wash nods, and gets to his feet. He doesn’t salute.

“Wash, are you okay?” Tucker’s outside the infirmary, and Wash realizes that he’s been waiting for him.

“I’m—fine,” Wash says, but he’s really not.

Martha’s right, of course. He was supposed to look after them. He always had. And he’d let them down. He’d let her down.

“Jesus, what the fuck did she _do_?” Tucker demands.

“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” Wash says with a short, bitter laugh.

“Fuck that shit!” Tucker says, angry. “Why the fuck can’t she just lay off?”

“I’ve got it handled,” Wash lies.

“Like hell you do,” Tucker says, and he grabs Wash and starts steering him towards his room. “C’mon dude. You look terrible.”

“I’m wearing my armor.”

“And that’s how you know it’s bad!” Tucker says. “You look so shitty you overcome the armor.”

* * *

Wash hears the shouting from halfway down the hall. Doyle is hiding behind his desk outside of Martha’s office, as usual when voices get loud.

“Who’s in there with her?” Wash demands.

“Ah! Agent Washington!” Doyle somehow manages to look even more terrified at the sight of him. “Uh, Captain Tucker and the General are—having a bit of a disagreement.”

“The fuck did you just say to me?” Martha yells, and Wash and Doyle flinch in unison.  

“I’m saying, fucking lay off! Wash has enough issues without you using him as your punching bag!”

“This is _none of your business_ , Captain Tucker,” Martha snaps.

“The hell it isn’t! Wash is my friend!”

“And this is a—” Martha stumbles over the word ‘family’, and Wash flinches again. “Personal matter! So unless there’s something you need to tell me about your relationship with Agent Washington, I think we’re done here!”

“You don’t get to act like that, not when you won’t even call him your brother, you self-righteous—”

Wash has heard enough. Tucker has done enough damage for one day. He pushes open the door and grabs Tucker by the shoulder, yanking him back from Martha. The two of them had been standing almost nose to nose. Wash is lucky he got there before there was any bloodshed. Both of them look inches away from brawling. “Tucker! That’s _enough_!”

“Wash—” Tucker protests, shaking Wash’s hand off. Martha’s arms are crossed, and there’s an icy chill radiating from her.

“I said, that’s _enough_!” Wash says. “Tucker. Get out.” Tucker stands firm. He’s still facing Martha, looking like he wants to fight her more than anything. Wash thinks he sees Tucker’s hand twitch towards his sword. “ _Please_.” He hates it, but he suspects that nothing else will move Tucker. He doesn’t get why Tucker’s being so stubborn about this. Wash can _handle this_.

Finally, Tucker relents. “ _Fine_ ,” he grumbles, but there’s a sulk to it that worries Wash. Tucker throws Martha another glare, and then he stomps out, slamming the door behind him. Wash thinks he can hear Doyle’s sigh of relief from inside the office.

Wash turns to Martha, heart racing. He can’t imagine what she thinks after Tucker did that—he’d _told_ him not to interfere, he’d told him it was fine. Why can’t they just _listen_? This is a family matter. And it’s not like Wash doesn’t deserve this. “I didn’t tell him to do that,” he says, desperately. “General, I—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Martha says, and there’s a note in her voice that Wash can’t place for a moment, before he realizes that it’s because she’s not mad at him. Her voice is soft, for once, almost nostalgic. “You’d never let people fight your battles for you. Not even when you had that broken arm and you still went off and punched that guy in the face for ruining Jackie’s science project.”

“This isn’t a battle,” Wash says, although he’s reeling, because Martha has _never_ talked about their childhood since he’s gotten here. She doesn’t even seem mad at him right now. He knows Donut’s been working on her, but he didn’t expect… _this_. “I don’t want to fight.”

Martha seems to hesitate for a moment, and her voice is quieter than he’s heard it since arriving on this planet. “I know.” She says, finally. She seems to be about to add something else, but then the door opens again, and Doyle pokes his head in.

Wash sees Martha’s posture change as if someone flipped a switch. The softness vanishes, and her spine stiffens. She’s a soldier again, to the core.

“General, I’m afraid you’re running late for your meeting with General Kimball.”

Martha nods, and grabs something off her desk. “I’m on my way, Doyle,” she says. She nods at Wash as abruptly as ever, any sign of the old nostalgia for their childhood gone. “Agent.”

She leaves, and Wash wishes he’d said something different, taken advantage of that opening.

* * *

She activates the sword, and Felix wants to laugh, because she clearly has no idea what she’s doing with that thing. She charges him, swinging the plasma blade wildly, and Felix sidesteps easily.

By Chorus standards, she’s a fine fighter. But those standards are fucking _terrible_ , so it doesn’t take much effort to throw her against the rough side of the cliff and twist the sword out of her grip.

The General then tries to tackle him, which is honestly _hilarious_. “You backstabbing, tiger fucking—” her insults are cut off as Felix grabs her arm and pins her against the cliff again, this time, all his focus on her instead of the sword, which is safely at his side. Satisfaction starts to unfurl inside him. The job is done. Now comes the fun part. He pauses to send Locus a signal to come pick him up.

“Do you have to be such a bitch?” Felix snarls, pressing his knife against her throat. It’s not perfect, of course. But they’re in a bit of a rush, so he’ll have be quick. Despite how much Locus likes to complain, Felix can prioritize.

“Given who I’m related to, it’s pretty inevitable,” the General says, and Felix pauses, disbelieving.

“Did you seriously spend your dying words burning your brother?” He asks, torn between delight and incredulity, and then he cries out as the General twists in his grip, slamming her knee into his balls. His grip loosens and he stumbles, just a bit.  

“I have been waiting to do that for _years_!” The General crows, before she tries to shoot him. Felix activates his hard light shield just in time, and he scowls, because despite his armor, her kick still hurt like _hell_. He reached for the sword he’d just twisted out of her grip. Killing her with her own sword is going to be a great irony. He’ll savor that.

Of course, that’s when the fucking backup arrives.

He gets away, of course, because what can a few simulation troopers even do to stop him, when their precious Carolina is at a bottom of a cliff? He has his shield and Locus watching his back, and they don’t even have one of their precious Freelancers. Just a couple of pathetic losers and a general with a lucky streak.

And now, it’s time to end this.

Felix grins as he gets into the vehicle. “Objective complete,” he says. He flourishes the sword with a grin.

He tries to activate it like he’s seen Tucker do a thousand times.

Nothing happens.

Locus gives him a look that projects past his helmet. Locus is expressive enough in his own way. Always has been. “Felix,” he says, his voice irate and dangerous. “What did you do?”

Felix officially hates this planet.

* * *

“So he can’t use the sword unless I’m dead,” Martha says. She whistles lowly. “Wow, they are _really_ going to want to kill me.”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” Wash tells her.

“And I was just getting used to assassination attempts being over,” Martha sighs. “Ah well. It was nice while it lasted.”

“Will you stop being flippant about this?” Kimball snaps. “Now we have to waste valuable soldiers trying to guard you!”

“I don’t need a guard,” Martha says, posture stiffening. 

“Don’t be arrogant,” Kimball says. “Felix wiped the floor with you, by your own admission!”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Martha says, crossing her arms. “I’m in _armor_. I change the colors, don’t speak, they have no idea who I am. We’re in the middle of a city where half the people wear the same uniform. They can’t kill me if they can’t find me. Guarding me will just draw attention.”

Everyone stares at her.

“That… might actually work,” Kimball says.

Martha shrugs. “I mean, that’s assuming they just try to sneak in and kill me.”

“That’s probably their best bet,” Wash says.

“Uh, am I the only one seeing one tiny logistical problem with this plan?” Epsilon says. “You’re the fucking leader of this army! You can’t just disappear into the ranks!”

Martha looks at him. “Sure I can. I have a second in command. I turn over leadership—”

“You’d _do that_?” Kimball looks flabbergasted.

“You have a second in command?” Wash asks. He’s never heard anything of the sort.

“Doyle,” Martha says with a shrug.

Everyone stares at her.

“He’s not the guy I would have gone with,” Epsilon says.

“Am I the only one thinking this is a terrible idea? Doyle leading an army?” Tucker asks.

“Isn’t Doyle the guy who hides behind the desk all the time?” Grif asks.

“I think so.” Simmons agrees.

“Is Doyle even a soldier?” Carolina says, hand on her hip.

“I am also confused and want to contribute to the conversation!” Caboose calls out.

“It’s not ideal,” Martha admits. “But the rules of succession are very specific in the Federal Army. It’s how I ended up in command.”

“Do I want to know what your rank was before you became general?” Kimball asks.

“No. You really don’t. I like people being scared of me, it ruins my image.”

“Your image being the fact that the troops still run away screaming if they think you’re about to take your helmet off?”

“Exactly. I’m so glad you understand me now. Makes me glad I didn’t kill you.”

“You really should stop bringing that up,” Epsilon points out.

“Eh. Tact is overrated.”

When everyone goes their separate ways, Wash stays behind. “I’ll keep you safe,” he promises.

She’s wearing her helmet, but he knows she’s rolling her eyes. “Agent Washington, a guard ruins the point of the plan.”

“General—” Not saying her name is killing him, but these are the rules he’s set for himself.

“We’ll work something out, Agent,” Martha says, and then she turns on her heel and walks away again.

* * *

Martha goes to find Carolina out of habit than anything else.

“You should be inside,” Carolina says. “Getting your new armor.”

“I know, I know. And there’s paperwork for turning over the army to Doyle and a thousand other things.” Martha sighs, leaning against the wall. “It’s so stupid. This isn’t even my planet. When we were sent here, things were already going to hell. We could have gotten out though. A lot of people did.” She stares into the distance, remembering the first time she saw that skyline.

“Why did you stay?”

Martha sighs. “Because I thought it was the right thing to do. And what do you know? I end up fighting a war that’s actually just some dickface playing chess with himself, and I’m just another pawn on his board. And the worst part? Is that, at the end of the day, we still started this war. We still all killed each other for stupid reasons and he’s going to profit off it.”

“Not if we stop him,” Carolina says.

“No,” she agrees. “I’m the only one who survived, out of my squad, you know. The others didn’t last a month. I keep surviving, and I’ve always wondered why. I’m not a good soldier. I’m not a good leader. The only thing I’m good at is pissing people off. But I keep living anyways, and I’ve never been able to figure out why. And ever since I’ve come back from that temple, I’ve been wondering if it’s for this. For that key. Sword. Whatever.” She sighs and closes her eyes. “I don’t know. I guess I haven’t had enough sleep lately. I should get inside before the bug fucker decides to stealth in here and stab me in the back again, only this time with a real knife.”

“You’re lucky we’re good at context, since you hate using real names so much,” Epsilon says.

“Look, I spend ages coming up with these insults, I’m so not going to keep them to myself.”

“Understandable,” Carolina says and Martha thinks she’s smiling.

She goes back into the city, and she thinks she can handle whatever it is the pirates will throw at her.

* * *

“Fuck!” Martha mutters, and Wash pauses.

“What happened?” He asks.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Kimball says at the same time.

“They blew up the controls. I—I’m going to have to detonate this thing manually.”

“ _What_?” Epsilon shrieked.

“I won’t be getting out,” Martha says. “You guys need to leave _now_.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Kimball says. “We need you alive. Just stay low, we’ll come get you.”

“Martha,” Wash says. “Don’t do this.”

“There isn’t time!” Martha snaps. “I’m surrounded, they’re coming for me, I’ll be dead soon anyways. I’m going to take them with me if I can.”

“Son of a bitch,” Epsilon whispers.

“Get out of here!” Martha says.

“If Felix isn’t in the city—” Kimball says.

“We have to risk it, because I’ll be dead soon anyways! Now _run_!”

Wash doesn’t turn. “Martha, I’m on my way, don’t do anything—”

“Carolina, get him on that pelican!” Martha snaps. “There’s no time to argue, I’m almost there now.”

“ _Martha_!” Wash yells, but Carolina’s already dragging him towards the ship. Her grip is steel.

“David!” He stops, hearing his old name from her. She’s switched to a private channel. This is just for them. “Stop it. I have to do this.” He can hear her moving on the other end. She speaks again, and he’s still frozen in place, paralyzed by his own name of all things. “Mitch always said I was too stubborn. Said I’d regret it one day. I’m sorry. I love you.”

“Martha—” He knows. Kimball is still fighting, but Wash falls to his knees, and he hates himself, because he should be going to her. She’s his _baby sister_ , and he can’t help her. . He _knows_ he won’t get there in time, no matter how hard he tries, no matter what he does, and he slumps against Carolina’s arm, exhausted and defeated, refusing to move for fear of losing what she’s about to say. “It’s okay. You were right.”

“No I wasn’t. Go back to the farm for me, okay? Tell them I’m sorry. That I love them.”

“ _Martha_ —”

“Give them hell for me, big brother.” The line goes quiet.

Carolina runs away to save them, but Wash doesn’t even notice. All he knows is that there’s a flare of bright light, and Wash screams.

It’s only later that he realizes he never said it back to her.

* * *

“Wash!” Donut nearly tackles him in a hug. “We heard the explosion, and—” He breaks off. His face is hidden by his helmet, but Wash knows that his eyes are growing large as he notices who isn’t on the ship with them. “Where’s—where’s Martha?”

“She—” Wash’s voice breaks. “She stayed behind. To blow up the reactor.”

Donut freezes. “No.”

“I—she said she loves you,” Wash says. “And that she’s sorry.”

“ _No_!” Donut says again, louder. “No, she can’t be—you’re _wrong_ , you’re _lying_!”

“Donut,” Wash says, reaching out, but Donut flinches away.

“She’s _not dead_!” Donut says. “She can’t be—” And then he lets out a choked sob.

“The General?” Grey has walked up. She’s heard enough. For once, the doctor seems shaken. “She’s—”

“Blew up the reactor core herself,” Wash says dully. “She—she couldn’t have survived that.”

Donut lets out another sob. Wash tries to reach for him again, but Donut still isn’t having it.

“I’m sorry,” Wash says, desperate. “I wasn’t fast enough, I couldn’t get to her—”

Donut doesn’t look at him. The Reds have surrounded him, awkwardly trying to provide comfort.

“Frank,” Wash says. “I’m sorry.”

“You know, Agent Washington,” Sarge says, slowly. “I’m thinking you two both might be needing some space. To help with the, er, mourning process.”

Wash nods and he stumbles away.

Martha’s words are still echoing in his ears. He finds a secluded cliff, and sits, staring towards the smoking remains of Armonia.

He tries not to think of what he’s going to tell his parents. Or Mitch. Or Jackie.

He tries not to wonder if Martha was still alive when the reactor exploded, or if the pirates had managed to kill her first.

“Wash?” Tucker asks. Wash doesn’t look up. His eyes stay focused on the clouds above what’s left of the city his sister died destroying.

“Not now, Tucker,” he says. It sounds too quiet.  

“Wash, look, I’m…” Tucker hesitates. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

“You didn’t even like her,” Wash says dully.

“Well, no. She was kind of a bitch to you. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck she’s gone.”

“Dead,” Wash corrects. “She’s dead.” The words don’t even hurt.

Tucker is hovering, nervous. Wash finally moves over, allowing Tucker to sit next to him.

“She forgave me,” Wash says, finally. “She said she was sorry.”

“What was she even mad at you for? No one could ever figure that out.”

Wash remembers a tall tree in a clearing that’s almost a perfect circle. He remembers the feel of rough bark beneath his fingers as he carves his name into the trunk. He remembers Martha grinning at him as they sit in the branches, her knuckles bruised and blood on her teeth. He has a black eye.

“I let her down,” Wash says.

“Dude, this is _not_ your fault,” Tucker says.

“Not… not that. I let her down before that. I wasn’t who she thought I was, I guess.”

Tucker tilts his head thoughtfully. “No offense, but that shit’s making me pretty glad Junior’s an only child. I don’t think I could handle that sort of thing.”

Wash lets out a small huff of laughter.

“At least she took out a whole bunch of bad guys with her,” Tucker offers. “She’d probably like that.”

“No,” Carolina’s found them. She sits on Wash’s other side, pressing her legs against him. “She’d be fucking pissed that she missed Felix and Locus.”

Wash nods. He looks at Carolina. “Ready to go?” The rage starts to burn through the numbness in his chest. He’s going to kill them. They’re going to _pay_.

“Almost,” Carolina says.

“You know,” Tucker says. “I bet her ghost is going to be fucking cheering you on.”

“No such thing as ghosts,” Wash says. He’s pretty sure he sees Epsilon flip him off out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t want you to kick their asses,” Tucker says.

“Please,” Epsilon scoffs. “That’s too mild. She’d want Wash to dump them in an incinerator or something while Grey sings operettas.”

Tucker stares at Epsilon. “Dude. I do _not_ want to know.”

“Look, I’m just saying!” Epsilon protests.

“I should go find Donut,” Wash says heavily. The rage has subsided again, and now all that he feels is concern. He knows Donut probably won’t want to see him right now, but he has to at least _try_.

“Doc’s got him,” Tucker says, and Wash wonders why Tucker thinks that’s even remotely reassuring.

“Still,” Wash says. It’s only fair that he makes sure to say goodbye to at least one of his siblings properly.

* * *

They win.

They win, and Epsilon dies.

They win, and Locus runs away with Martha’s sword at his hip.

Charon falls. The Chairman runs away too, UNSC forces on his tail.

Wash goes back to Armonia to try to find something to bury.

There’s nothing left but dust and ash.

Martha is gone and her killer still lives.

And Wash stands in the remains of a nuclear reactor, “ _Give them hell,_ ” still echoing in his mind,  and he wonders if winning was worth this.

* * *

“We’re going after him, right?” Donut asks, the minute Grey clears him from medical. He’s still putting on his armor, hopping on one leg as he struggles to get his boot on. “He’s got Martha's  _sword_ , Wash.”

Wash wants to. God, he wants to. Locus is free and alive and that chafes at him. He wants him to _pay_. He wants to kill him with his own hands, he wants to see him rot in prison forever.

But Martha asked him to do something, and that has to happen first.

“Soon,” Wash says. “But Martha asked me to do something for her.”

Donut looks confused. “She did?”

Wash nods. “We need to check in on Mitch and Jackie first. Then we’ll make Locus pay.”

Donut nods, slowly. “Alright. But we won’t stay too long, right?”

“Right,” Wash says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to write so much cracky fluff after this. Next AU is a lot happier, I promise.
> 
> Iz's edits and drawings apply to this universe too! Check them out; [here](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/142747788355/secretlystephaniebrown-has-some-fun-donut-sibs) and [here!](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/142762835470/i-drew-more-donuts) and [here.](http://goodluckdetective.tumblr.com/post/143277685445/some-quick-and-dirty-edits-for)
> 
> Come talk to me over on [tumblr!](http://www.secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com)


	4. Something Unpredictable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some aliens want to abduct Charlie and Junior, and they decide that the best way to go about it is to resurrect some of the top soldiers in the galaxy. The fallen soldiers of Project Freelancer. On the farm. 
> 
> What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised fluff, and I hope I delivered! Resurrection verse! Good things happening! Happiness! :D

Felix never filed a report about what exactly went wrong when he attempted to attack the farm of one Michelle Caboose nee [REDACTED]. Things did not go as planned. The man known as Locus arrived on the scene earlier than expected. The people in charge drew conclusions.

They were the wrong ones.

They have access to plenty of soldiers, both living and dead. Losing Felix was only a temporary setback. And now the two alien children were in one location. Much more accessible.

They decided that Felix’s failure was because of his direct approach. Obviously, they need someone with a greater capability for infiltration and stealth.

They select the DNA of one Agent New York of Project Freelancer. He was one of the best, after all, and a capable infiltrator.

Surely he will succeed where Felix failed. He will bring them the children.

They begin the resurrection process.

* * *

They tell York that everyone is dead, and nothing has ever tasted quite so bitter. Delta is gone too, which makes everything even worse. York has never been truly alone since Freelancer, and now his head feels hollowed out and empty.

He doesn’t know what happened to the others. There were still plenty of them alive when Wyoming shot him through the shoulder and Delta made him black out. He doesn’t have answers.

He doesn’t even think when they offer him a job. He just says yes. They brought him back to life, after all. It’s the least he could do.

They give him armor and weapons and modern lockpicking equipment to sweeten the deal. They give him vague promises if he succeeds and even vaguer threats of what will happen to him if he fails.

He scans the file briefly. Two aliens, living in small-town Iowa. He snorts at the absurdity of it all, but they drop him off on the outskirts of town. The aliens are staying at a farm, and if popular culture has taught York anything, it’s that farms usually have to hire workers, particularly around harvest season. (York’s pretty sure late summer’s harvest season.) Also the briefing packet his mysterious employers have given him mentioned that Michelle Caboose (and what a weird name that was) is looking for hired help. They probably didn’t expect him to apply, but hey. He doesn’t want to go into this blind.

York takes off the new armor and goes to the local motel. He checks in, and sweet talks the old lady behind the counter.

He mentions he’s looking for work, and the lady’s eyes disappear as she smiles widely.

“Oh?” She asks. “What kind of work?”

“Just about anything, really,” York says. “I used to do construction work, but I guess that’s probably in short supply around now.”

“You were a soldier, weren’t you?” She has sharp eyes.

“I was,” York admits. There’s no denying it, not with the eye.

She smiles at him again. “I know a farmer who has a soft spot for vets, and she’s looking for a hired hand. I’ll call her up, see if she’s interested.”

“Much obliged,” he says, smiling his best charming smile.

The next day, he drives out to the farm with the pink house. He wonders if there’s a story behind that.

Things seem relatively calm when he gets there. He meets Michelle—“Call me Mitch,” she says with a kind smile—and she shows him around the farm. He’s pretty sure some of her animals aren’t standard farm fare, but he’s a city boy, what does he know?

“You ever worked on a farm before?” She asks. She has curly blonde hair and a collection of freckles that niggles at York’s memory.

“No,” he admits. “But I’m a fast learner.”

She grins at him. “I bet.” She stretches out her arm, pointing to something in the distance that York can’t quite make out. “I just bought the farm next door,” she says. “I’ve got some boarders, they needed more space, and since I own the land, I’m fully intending on farming it. So I’m looking to hire on some help.”

“Can’t your boarders help you?” He asks, curious. Nothing in the briefing packet had mentioned boarders.

She snorts. “They’d be more likely to set the barn on fire than help,” she says affectionately. “They’re good people, but they’re not farmers.”

A dog runs up to her, tail wagging. “Hey Shadow,” Mitch says, stooping over to pet. “Is Martha here?”

The dog barks, then runs off. “Well, if Martha’s here, David should be back soon,” Mitch says. “He and his friend are doing the farmer’s market for me today.” She smiles at him. “Why don’t you come inside, meet my wife?”

“Sure thing,” York says.

Mitch pulls off her giant boots before heading inside, so York takes off his shoes too. Inside, the pink house is a lot more tasteful. The furniture is mismatched but comfortable looking, and the walls are hung with dozens of photographs. Most of them seem to have Mitch and two other women who look a lot like her. York doesn’t examine any of them too closely, instead focusing on following Mitch into the kitchen.

“Andi!” Mitch yells before entering the kitchen. “I brought in the man who Ms. Lewis down at the motel called us about, figured you’d like to meet him before I hire him.”

“At least you’re consulting me before adopting another stray,” the woman in the kitchen says.

“Pleased to meet—” York cuts off as he realizes he’s looking down the barrel of a shotgun.

“York,” Four Seven Niner says, her voice _very_ dangerous. “Long time no see.”

York stares at her. He’s only seen Niner out of armor a half-dozen times, but she looks pretty much the same. Only pissed as hell.

“Well,” he says. “This is awkward.”

Mitch backs away from him, retreating behind Niner. Who is, apparently, her _wife_. And still holding a shotgun to his face. Lovely. “York?” She demands. “As in a _Freelancer_?”

“Formerly,” York protests. “I didn’t stick around.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Niner snaps. “You were _dead_.”

Mitch suddenly goes ghost-white. “Like Felix?” She asks Niner. Niner stops.

“They brought you back,” Niner says. “Oh, those _fuckers_.”

The door opens behind him. York doesn’t take his eyes off Niner. “Look,” he says, trying to placate. “It’s a long story. There’s no need—”

That’s when the woman York will later learn is named Martha brings a cast-iron skillet down on his head, knocking him out cold.

York wakes up not too long later, tied up with what looks like a child’s jump rope and locked in a second story bathroom. And by locked, he means barricaded in.

But they forgot to lock the window.

York weighs the pros and cons. It mostly balances out to; Niner seems like she wouldn’t mind killing him at all, York’s employers are definitely screwing him over, and he really doesn’t have any reason to stick around.

He slips out of the jump rope, pops open the window and proceeds to scale down the roof as quietly as possible. He wishes he hadn’t taken his shoes off.

He can hear them arguing about what to do with him, and none of it sounds particularly pleasant. Also, there seem to be a lot of them, and York’s unarmed.

York is _definitely_ booking it out of here.

Nothing could make him want to stick around this place. His city instincts were right. Farm life is definitely not for him.

He carefully lands on the porch. His shoes are still there. He ducks below the window, out of sight, and carefully puts them on. Then he proceeds to speed walk down the driveway.

He’s almost halfway gone when he hears Niner shout, “ _He climbed out the window_!” and a rusted red pickup truck turns down the driveway.

York curses his luck and wishes he’d thought to bring _any_ of his weapons with him. But he’s unarmed, and the figure that comes barreling out of the vehicle towards him doesn’t seem to care about that.

“Who the hell are you?” The figure pinning him to the gravel demands, teeth bared in a very familiar scowl.

“ _Carolina_?”

“York?” She stares at him like he’s a ghost. (Which, to be fair, he is. Or a zombie. Isn’t that a pleasant thought?)

“Carolina, get away from him! They brought him back, like Felix!” Wash is there, with a gun aimed right at his face, and _wow_ , clearly York is _really_ being screwed over.

“Jeeze, they can tell me what kind of cabbages this farm grows but they don’t bother to tell me that my friends are alive and here?” York gripes.

“They?” Wash asks.

“The aliens,” York says. “I’m pretty sure they specifically said you were dead. Also, they didn’t mention Niner, so I’m pretty sure they’re screwing me over.”

“What was your mission?” Wash demands.

“Capture two dangerous aliens,” York says. He’s still on the ground.

“ _Dangerous_?” Carolina demands. Her elbow is pressing against his throat. “They’re _kids_!”

York stares up at her, blankly. “What.”

She lets up slightly, but her green eyes are narrowed at him. “You didn’t know?”

“I did not. Which is yet further evidence that these people are either terrible at surveillance, or are actively screwing me over for some reason.”

She and Wash look at each other. Finally, she lets him up.

“If you’re lying to me,” Carolina says. “If you’re here to hurt my kids… I will _end_ you.”

York believes her. “I’m not,” he says. “And I’m a terrible liar, remember?”

She smiles at that, just briefly. Just long enough for York to think, just _maybe_ , they’ve been given a second chance.

Then he realizes what she said. “Wait, you have _kids_?”

* * *

“Are you hiding from the geese too?”

North nearly reaches for his sidearm before he makes himself stop. He’s not used to people being able to sneak up on him. Theta normally would alert him before they were able to.

But Theta is gone now. It’s just North and South and the sniper rifle.

And, apparently, whoever it is who’s snuck up on him.

He’s never heard Sanghelli from a child before, but the voice is undeniably young. He turns slowly, his hand still prepared to go for his weapon if the need arises.

She’s tiny—definitely either a child or an incredibly small adult. She’s wearing human clothes that look very odd on her…

And her eyes.

Her eyes are _human_ eyes.

North’s blood goes cold as he starts to put the pieces together. Their mission isn’t what they were told. They’ve been played, and he doesn’t like it.

He sits up slightly, and glances down. Sure enough, several snowy white geese are convened around the base of the tree, honking loudly.

“Sort of,” he says. “I’m North. What’s your name?”

“Charlie,” she says, in English. North blinks, surprised. “Are you a sniper? My father is a sniper.”

“Is he?” North says carefully. “Is he around here?”

“He’s in jail,” Charlie says, drooping slightly. “I live here now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” North says as sincerely as he can. He needs to get to South, needs to tell her to call this off, because they’ve done terrible things, but he’s drawing the line _here_. Adults are one thing. But he is _not_ hurting a kid, even if the other one is actually an adult, and it’s pretty clear they can’t trust their information here.

“It’s okay,” Charlie says. “They’re nice. Even if the geese aren’t.”

North grins at her. “You come up here to avoid them?”

Charlie nods. “Aunt Jackie says they’re not that bad. But they bit Uncle Caboose yesterday and Aunt Mitch says they’re evil.”

“Never really dealt with geese when I was a kid,” North says, although given the fact that they’ve treed a kid is making his trigger finger itch slightly. “But they look pretty mean to me.”

Charlie nods, as if satisfied by his answer. “Why are you up here?” Charlie asks.

“I’m keeping an eye on my sister,” he says. Charlie nods, as if that makes perfect sense.

Then the front door bursts open, and South rolls out, wrestling with what appears to be an older version of Wash.

“Well, that’s not good,” North says, before he realizes that they’re both out of armor and instead of fighting to the death, they instead seem to be contenting themselves with biting and hair pulling.

“Why is Uncle Wash fighting your sister?”

“It’s a long story,” North sighs, slinging his rifle across his back. “Need help getting down?”

Charlie nods, and North gets down first, and then helps her down.

“What the hell is going on?”

North doesn’t think he’s ever seen an adult that small. She’s wearing a neat suit skirt and a blazer over a green blouse, and brass rimmed glasses perch on the edge of her nose. She looks very out of place on this farm.

“Who are you, and why are you holding my nieces hand?” The woman points at North with an admirable ferocity, given that North is both in armor, almost two feet taller than her, and obviously armed.

“I’m North,” he says. “And I met Charlie while in the tree.”

“Jackie. Always fun to meet more of you Freelancers,” she said.

“ _David_!” A more regularly sized woman walked onto the porch, followed by what appeared to be Four Seven Niner in a wheelchair, holding a pistol. “Why are you fighting?”

“She shot me!” Wash protested at the same time that South yelled, “He killed me!”

The woman stared at them, then moved her hands to her hips. “Martha! Get the hose!”

Charlie giggled. North glanced at her. “Does this happen a lot?”

Charlie nodded.

“So, who’s that?”

“She’s Mitch,” Jackie said. “It’s her farm. Martha’s the one by the water pump. Not the robot, the human covered in sawdust.”

“She’s another sister?”

Jackie nods. “She’s Carolina’s roommate,” she adds as an afterthought as Martha throws the switch on the hose to unleash a surprisingly high pressured torrent of water onto South and Wash, which causes them to break apart, spluttering and shivering.

North pauses to try to comprehend that. The idea of military-neat Carolina living with someone who is literally coated in sawdust is difficult enough. Carolina being alive is a whole other category.

Mitch turns towards him. “Which one are you then?”

“North,” he introduces himself. Niner is pointing her gun at him. “Look, clearly this was a big misunderstanding.”

The one named Martha lets out a laugh.

Jackie sighs. “We know. Martha, when’s Carolina and York arriving?”

“York’s alive?” South says, dripping wet. North wonders where her armor got to.

“As of two weeks ago, yes.” Wash looks like a slightly drowned cat, completely with an affronted expression.

“Why do they think resurrecting _more_ of us is the solution?” South asks, getting to her feet.

“I don’t think they’ve actually realized you guys are here,” Jackie says, hands propped on her hips. “It’s not like we’ve filed paperwork about it.”

“It shouldn’t take that much surveillance!” North protests.

“To do what? Identify former Freelancers whose identities and faces are classified?” Niner asks.

North opens his mouth to argue, but then closes it thoughtfully. “It’s still a major oversight,” he complains. “You should set up more anti-surveillance measures.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Mitch points at him. “This is a _farm_.”

“How many times has it been attacked by mercenaries or Freelancers?” South asks.

Mitch’s jaw twitches slightly, and she doesn’t answer. Wash speaks up instead. “You guys are the third attack.”

“York’s attempt barely counts!” Mitch protests. “We locked him in a bathroom and Martha knocked him out with a frying pan!”

South and North look at each other, and take note of that fact for later mockery.

Mitch points at North, then South, then Wash, and then Niner. “I am going to go check on my _crops_ , on my _normal farm_. Call me when the Freelancer catch up is done. We’ll work out housing arrangements then.”

“House rules,” Martha reminds her.

“Right,” Mitch turns towards North and South again. “No armor in the house, it messes up the floors; no guns in the house—”

“Unless you’re Niner,” Wash points out.

“Andi has marital privileges,” Mitch says loftily. “No talk of violent stuff in front of the kids—”

“How many kids are there?” South demands, glancing at Charlie.

“Five, counting a teenager,” Wash says. A black man in a turquoise t-shirt has found a towel for Wash, and Wash is doing his best to dry his hair.

“And no killing each other,” Mitch finishes.

“That one’s new,” Wash says.

“The only person who’s shot someone else before now is you shooting Frank,” Mitch says. Wash flinches. “Pretty sure you’re not going to try that one again, but I’m not sure if you and South can be trusted yet.”

South makes a slightly offended noise.

“Also, I’ve heard stories from Andi about the twins,” Mitch adds. “Better safe than sorry.”

This time, both North and South were responsible for the offended noises. Mitch ignores them with the air of someone who is not nearly as intimidated by them as she probably should be, and heads off behind the house.

They all stand there awkwardly for a moment.

“Tucker, why don’t you take Charlie to go find Lauren?” Niner suggests, and the turquoise man nods and places a fond hand on Charlie’s head.

“C’mon, squirt, let’s go find the others.”

* * *

Somehow, they end up eating dinner with Wash’s family and some Sim Troopers. South is pretty sure the one that’s Niner’s brother was there when Wash killed her.

“So,” Mitch says with a sigh. “Where are you two going to stay? We’re kind of running out of room here.”

“They’re not living with me,” the one called Martha says. “I took the last one, and as it is I’m scarred for life.”

“Oh, _you’re_ scarred,” York grumbles. He’s sitting next to Carolina, who’s still eying her and North suspiciously, which is totally unfair if she’s completely fine with York. South is pretty sure they’re holding hands under the table. “You dumped ice water on us!”

“It was in the roommate agreement,” Martha says idly, cutting up her meat. 

“I didn’t think you were serious!” York protests.

“Your mistake,” the five siblings chorus.

South looks at them. She can _definitely_ see the resemblance between all of them, even if not all of them look like Wash. But there are carry overs. Mainly the freckles. There are so many fucking freckles at this table.

“Yeah, I think I don’t want to live with her,” she says.

“You’re probably not in danger,” Carolina says, lips twitching. “The ice water is a “PDA deterrent”. One of them, anyways.”

South makes a face. “Living with you and York? No thanks.” 

“One of my roommates moved out, and the others are on vacation this week,” Jackie says, stirring her coffee with a thoughtful expression. “I could take one of them, or both, at least for a while.”

“One of us?” South asks.

“Well, I figure you two might want separate spaces,” Jackie says, frowning. “Did I say something wrong?”

South and North look at each other.

“I’m keeping her,” South announces.

“You can’t keep my sister!” Wash protests.

“Too late,” South says. She and North grin at each other.

* * *

Maine has nightmares.

The only problem is, he’s pretty sure that his nightmares aren’t just nightmares.

He’s pretty sure he did all of those things that haunt his dreams.

 _Carolina_. _North. Wash._ Ripping AI from their heads, his gauntlets covered in blood. Gunshots and cliffs and Sigma’s flames and _so much blood_.

He wakes up as the beginnings of dawn’s light begin to pour through the window of the room he’s in. Baker’s hours are easy to keep when he wakes up at the slightest things.

Maine had never really thought of a life after the war. The war had been everything; it always had been, it always would be.

But now there’s life after. There was a death that he didn’t understand, didn’t really remember—he remembers Wash, and Texas ( _he killed her too_ ) and loud noises and bright colors and something about a car—and then there were aliens and he was alive again, and they sent him to a town and told him to complete a mission.

Maine hadn’t even made it three steps before Nadia had found him.

“You okay, boy?” Nadia had hair the color of steel, was covered entirely with a thin coating of flour, and a mild Polish accent that got heavier when she was angry.

Maine didn’t want to do any mission. He didn’t care about their promises or threats—he was an empty shell whose hands had killed his friends, what could they give him or do to him?

He shrugged. He started walking.

“You look like you need a good meal,” Nadia declared, and Maine had shrugged again.

Nadia squinted at him. “You come with me. You can carry my flour.” She handed him a bag of flour that probably was very heavy for her, but wasn’t much to Maine.

Weeks later, he’s  still here, helping Nadia with the bakery. He’d learned to punch dough and whisk eggs and make icing flowers. He’d helped Nadia with deliveries and cleaned the ovens and learned the names of a hundred different pastries and sweets he’d never even heard of before.

“You up, _chłopak_?” Nadia calls up the stairs. She’s been letting him sleep in the attic level above the bakery. There was already a bed up there—she had lived there once, before her bad leg made the stairs too much trouble to live there.

Maine hasn’t told her his name, but that doesn’t stop her from calling him whatever name she feels like. He’s pretty sure most of them are endearments in Polish. He doesn’t know Polish though, so he’s not entirely certain.

He grunts in affirmation, and heads downstairs to help her with the morning baking.

“Nightmares again, _malutki_?” Nadia asks him when he puts on his apron and starts kneading the dough. Maine grunts, not looking at her.

She doesn’t ask about his past. Not about the armor under his bed or weapon in his closet or the pistol he still carries on bad days.

Nadia doesn’t ask.

It’s nice.

“We’ve got orders out of town today, so you can take my car,” she says, tapping him on the shoulder with her wooden spoon to pull him out of his own thoughts.  

He points at the finished product on the counter and grunts questioningly. He remembers that cake. Teal frosting and yellow icing for the words. Nadia did the words, he did the yellow icing roses. He was proud of those roses. She nods.

“Bright pink house, can’t miss it,” she says, dusting the flour off her hands. “Lovely girl, Mitch, even if her brother’s a menace.” Maine tilts his head. “He egged my door. He’s trouble, he is. He has a nice young man, though. Too good for him. How a nice girl like Mitch has a brother like that is beyond me.”

Maine shrugs. He doesn’t know anyone in the town, but he thinks he met Mitch when she came in to place the order. He vaguely remembers blonde hair and freckles that were painful to look at, so he went to the back room to refill the sugar bins.

He hopes Mitch doesn’t answer the door.

“Drive safely, _miernota_!” She yells after him as he takes the keys from the hook. Maine looks at her. He’s driven warthogs through minefields. He can handle her tiny black car.

Admittedly, he’s pretty sure a car also killed him, so maybe she’s right telling him to be safe.

The house is certainly distinctive, Maine decides, looking at the odd sign by the entrance to the driveway. It’s really… _pink_.

Maine frowns. There’s something about the color pink, he thinks. Something to do with his nightmares. Wash was in those ones, he thinks, tapping on the steering wheel. And gunshots.

He shoves the thought aside. Wash is dead. They told him that. Maine’s pretty sure he killed him in the snow. Killed him and Tex and maybe some others. (He’s not sure if Carolina was there, or later, or earlier. There was snow when he killed her too. But he doesn’t remember Wash being there. Or the loud rainbow people.)

Maine can hear people inside the house. Laughter. Music. Maine wonders if the cake is for a party. There are a few other cars in the driveway—a big, black pickup with several bales of hay in the back, a tiny little compact that looks eco-friendly and generally harmless, and a beat-up looking grey car with a bumper sticker that says “Watch out for the idiot behind me”. Maine huffs a small laugh in amusement. He parks behind that car.

Maine gets out of the vehicle and finds himself staring at a big black dog, which is sniffing him curiously. 

Maine grunts. _Move_. The dog ignores him. The tail starts wagging. He stares at the dog, holding the cake. He grunts again. The dog looks at him. The tail moves again. A tongue goes out.

Maine does not have experience with animals. He decides to try to walk around this dog. The dog follows him. Maine shakes his head. The dog keeps following, tail now worked up to a good speed.

Maine sighs. He realizes he can’t ring the doorbell with his hands busy holding the cake, so he kicks the door gently to serve as a knock. The dog lays down on a pillow on the porch that probably serves as its bed. He wonders if it’s a sheep dog.

The door opens, and the music gets louder.

Maine freezes.

The face on the other side of the door is freckled, with blonde hair shot with grey streaks. Scars crisscross his arms and slash across his face. His eyes are blue. He’s smiling.

 _Wash_ is smiling.

Wash is _alive_.

And then he realizes who is on the other side of the door, and he freezes too.

Maine and Wash stare at each other for a moment, and then Wash lets out a strangled sounding yelp and slams the door in Maine’s face.

“David?” He hears someone say. “Who was at the door?”

Maine wonders if he’s dreaming. Maybe this is all going to turn into a nightmare. Maybe there will be snow and blood and a hook on the other side of that door if he opens it. But just in case, he carefully sets the cake down on the railing so the dog can’t get it and then knocks again. With his hands this time.

The door opens slowly.

Wash looks at him like he’s a ghost.

Maine has a thousand things he should say. But he can’t say anything. The aliens healed all of his recent injuries, but his throat still doesn’t work.

So instead he grunts, and pats Wash on the head.

“Maine?” Wash says, quietly. His eyes are wary, and his hand is behind his back, doubtlessly grabbing the pistol tucked into his waistband.

“Are you fucking _kidding me_?” South yells, and Maine blinks. South. South is wearing a purple crop top and denim shorts and North is there and he’s also wearing a purple crop top, and Carolina is wearing a blue dress and York is wearing what appears to be a tuxedo shirt. Four Seven Niner is in a wheelchair and wearing what appears to be overalls. She has a gun out and an exasperated look on her face.

Maine reaches around and finds the cake. He holds it up as a peace offering.

“Oh, you’re Nadia’s boy,” Mitch says. Maine looks between her and Wash. Apparently, the resemblance isn’t a coincidence. He huffs in amusement.

“ _Nadia_?” Wash yells. Maine nods, noting amusedly that Wash’s voice still goes high and squeaky when he’s confused.

“Resurrected by aliens?” York asks.

Maine nods.

“How far back?”

Maine pauses, considering, and holds up three fingers.

“Weeks?” Maine shakes his head.

“ _Months_?” Carolina demands.

“That’s before us!” South says, looking affronted. “And you were hiding out in the bakery this whole time?”

Maine nods. He looks at the cake. It’s yellow and teal. He hadn’t noticed the words before, but it reads, “Congrats on your not-wedding!”

He hands the cake to Carolina, who stares at it. Then she spins. “ _Martha_!”

A woman with brown hair grins. “Happy, not-wedding, roomie,” she sings.

York looks at the cake, and chokes. Yelling begins. Maine decides to ignore it, because it mostly seems to be about legality and definitions of relationships, but York and Carolina are holding hands the whole time, so it all seems to be semantics to him.

Maine tilts his head towards Mitch, locks eyes with Wash, and grunts questioningly.

“Maine,” Wash says slowly, as if he still can’t believe what he’s seeing. “This is my sister, Mitch.”

Maine does his best friendly grunt. Mitch smiles at him.

That’s when Maine notices the former sim troopers hiding in the kitchen. He points and makes another confused noise.

“You fought them,” Wash says. “When you were the Meta?” He pauses. “They… they kind of killed you.”

Maine nods. He gives them a thumbs up.

Wash chokes, apparently unable to breathe. Maine slaps him on the back, concerned. 

Maine sighs, and taps the back of his neck. He then shakes his head. No Sigma.

“I know sign language,” the brown haired woman says. “If you want.”

Maine shakes his head. He doesn’t know sign language.

“Seriously?” A man wearing an aqua t-shirt comes out of the kitchen, followed by a very colorful cohort of people, including the two aliens Maine’s pretty sure he was supposed to kidnap. “How many languages do you know?”

“More than you,” the woman retorts. Maine points and makes his questioning noise again.

“I’m Martha. Wash’s sister. I’ll let him explain this lot to you,” Martha says, waving her hands at the assembled simulation troopers.

After everything’s calmed down, Maine looks at Carolina, and carefully touches her shoulder. _Sorry_.

She looks at him, and punches him softly on the shoulder. “It’s fine,” she says. “You didn’t kill me.”

He blinks.

“I survived the fall,” she says.

He points at Wash. His heart is racing in his ears as he tries to sort through his nightmares, tries to fit the pieces all together. 

“He didn’t die either,” she tells him. She’s being gentle. Coddling him. It’s bizarre. It’s not normal. She’s changed. She’s grown. Maine wants to hate it, but she’s _happy_. She’s looking at York like he’s precious and wonderful—and if he died and came back to her, he realizes, that certainly would be true—and she’s laughing at the Sim Troopers’ jokes and she’s petting the cat on her lap absently. He’s never seen her like this. He never thought he would.

He points at North, and then nods. There was no way that he was wrong about killing North. He remembers pulling the trigger, remembers digging the chip out of the back of his head, blood covering his hands. He remembers South screaming at him for it. Remembers knocking her out.

“He did die.” She doesn’t say _you did it_ , but he knows it’s there. “South did, too. But Wash killed her.”

He punches his hand to signify Tex, and tilts his head.

“Yes. You killed Tex.” She’s tense. She’s upset. He remembers her hating Tex. He doesn’t know why she’s so upset about her dying.

Maine sighs. He pats her on the shoulder. He points at York.

“Wyoming killed him,” she growls, and the old pain flares in her eyes.

Maine pats her again, this time on the head. She pushes him away, but she’s smiling.

“Alright! Enough drama,” Mitch says, clapping her hands. “Time to eat!”

Of course, that’s when CT crashes through the window.

* * *

Mitch kicks them out of the house until they’ve taken care of the alien assholes, which CT supposes is fair, even if she didn’t get any cake.

“So we’re going after the aliens?” She asks as they convene outside, underneath the big willow tree in the front yard.

The others all stare at each other, as if weighing their options.

“I guess,” Wash sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. CT tries not to stare at how terrible he looks. They all look pretty beat up, but Wash and Maine seem to be the winners. But then again, Maine always looked pretty beat up, even back at Freelancer.

“Why are we letting the farmer kick us out of the house?” North asks, sounding more amused than anything as he leans against the willow tree.

“Aren’t you mooching off this family? Crashing with the younger sister and all?” CT asks.

“We’re paying _rent_ now, thank you very much,” North says. South nods.

“And you scared away her other roommates,” Wash points out.

“You can’t prove anything,” South claims. Wash buries his face in his hands.

“You two have _jobs_?” CT asks.

“We all do but Wash,” York says. He and Carolina are basically non-functional, CT decides. Too busy enjoying the honeymoon stage after their not-wedding. They’re lying down on the grass, her head on his stomach, staring up at the branches of the tree.  

“I’m volunteering at the library,” Wash defends himself.

“Still not getting paid,” South says.

“ _I’m_ not legally dead,” Wash says, crossing his arms. “I have a pension.”

“So do I,” Carolina notes.

“Yeah, but you got competitive after York got a job.” Carolina throws a stick at South for that.

“So where do you guys work?” CT asks, stretching. Her armor is in pieces around her. She’s liking the farm, even if the security is atrocious. She’ll have to get North to help her improve that; it’s not good, especially if they’re going to keep sending mercenaries after the family. But the farm is… soothing. She sees why the others have stayed.  

“I work in the bank,” North says.

“I work in the flower shop,” South shrugs.

“Flowers?” CT asks, unable to stop herself from smirking. South scowls at her.

“Shut up.”

Maine grunts.

“Maine works at the bakery, for the scary lady who hates Wash,” York translates, grinning. “I think he egged her door or something.”

“I was _seven_ ,” Wash grumbles.

Maine makes the rumbling sound that is his laugh.

“I work at the post office,” Carolina volunteers. “York works the thrift store.”

“Wash’s boyfriend is a barista,” South adds. CT sits upright.

“ _Boyfriend_?” She asks, delighted.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Wash falls face first onto the grass.

“ _And_ Tucker’s got a kid, so Wash is a step-dad!” North adds, nudging Wash with his foot.

Wash raises his hand in the air to flip them all off.

“So, Maine,” North asks, grinning slightly. “Which sister do you think you’re adopting? South and I already grabbed Jackie, but I’m sure we can share.”

Maine glances at Carolina curiously. CT watches, curious.

“Martha adopted her before Carolina could decide,” York says, playing with Carolina’s hair. Carolina’s eyes are closed, and she’s making noises that sound suspiciously like purring.

“She did not,” Wash protests. “Martha doesn’t adopt people, that’s Mitch’s thing.”

Maine looks at York, who nods. “Yeah, Niner wasn’t too happy about that. She’s a _little_ possessive.”

“What did Niner do this time?” Martha walks out of the house, the dog at her heels.

“Got jealous of York.”

Martha lets out a loud, crackling laugh. “Oh yeah. How much salt did she put in your coffee?”

“So much salt,” York groans. “I felt like I was gargling saltwater that just _happened_ to have coffee in it.”

She grins. “I’m going to work in the shop. C’mon, Shadow.”

The dog doesn’t move. It’s found Maine’s lap. It doesn’t look like it’s intending to move anytime soon.

She looks at Maine, looks at the dog, and sighs. “This is how it’s going to be, huh?” She asks the dog, who licks Maine’s face and barks. “Fine, but he better have good Wash blackmail stories. I’ll bring my ASL dictionary tomorrow.”

Maine huffs, amused. Martha walks away, already shouting in Spanish to the robot who is poking his head out of the door to the small shed that apparently functions as her woodshop.

“Well,” Carolina says. “Looks like Martha’s claimed him already.”

Maine grunts appreciatively.

“You _would_ find her funny,” Wash complains. 

Maine pets the dog, and ignores Wash.

“What about you, CT?” South asks.

“I’ve been here half an hour, and I haven’t even spoken to all the sisters,” CT points out. She wonders if the tree would be good climbing. “I’m sure it will happen on its own. You can’t rush these things.”

“Stop stealing my sisters,” Wash grumbles.

The short sister walks out of the house, tugging on her jacket. “I’m heading into town,” she says to them. “Maine, should I tell Nadia you’re going to be late?”

He nods.

“Also, CT, do you have any allergies? Andi’s cooking.”

“Won’t we be gone by then?” CT asks, looking at the others.

Jackie raises an eyebrow. “How do you guys plan on tracking down aliens without a pilot? Niner’s calling in some favors to get a ship. You guys work on the planning part. She’ll get you there.”

She gets into the tiny car and then drives away.

South is the one to finally speak up. “Of all the siblings, how did _Wash_ end up the Freelancer?”

“I hate you,” Wash informs them, but his voice is muffled by the grass. Maine pats his head.

“We know,” CT says cheerfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's because of Nina, who was my wonderful cheerleader throughout the whole thing, and came up with the entire concept of Maine the baker and Nadia. Thanks dear! <3
> 
> Come hang out with me over on [tumblr](http://www.secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com) if you want to see me gushing about the Donut Sibs at the drop of a hat.


	5. Lose Your Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SERIOUS RVB14 SPOILERS BELOW, PLEASE DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU'VE SEEN SEASON 14 EPISODE 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was just minding my own business, cheerfully plotting out another fluffy AU to wrap things up before I post the +1 section, but then RvB14 episode 4 came out. And then Iz, proving herself to be a wonderful friend and horrible influence, took inspiration from the episode, and suggested, “What if, instead of Jimmy, Church possessed Donut?” 
> 
> So… this one’s light on the sisters, heavy on brotherly feelings. Hope you like!
> 
> Warnings: mental trauma, brain damage, AI issues, violence, the Director being the worst, Florida being a dick, and RvB14 Spoilers.

“So,” Florida looks at the man sitting across from him. He’s young. Very young. Probably only just enlisted. “Tell me about yourself, Private Donut.”

The name on the file Florida read before entering the room tells him that the man’s name is legally Franklin Delano Donut. An excellent name, if Florida says so. He likes the theme. The file also tells him about a big brother in the military, and shows him a picture. Florida would know that face anywhere, even if the last time he’d seen the man was unconscious in a hospital bed, trying to claw his implant out of the back of his skull.

Franklin Donut doesn’t know about his “connections”, though. He thinks his older brother died a hero.

The man beams at him, bright blue eyes twinkling in a way that makes his resemblance to one Agent Washington stand out. “What do you want to know, sir?” Donut asks. His smile isn’t like Wash’s. It’s wider. Sweeter. Kinder.

It’s almost a pity, Florida thinks. But he has a job to do, and he’s _certain_ that this is the right man for the job. Washington couldn’t handle the fragment of an AI. It seems a reasonable guess that his brother will have similar problems with a fuller, but less negative AI.

He tells Donut that he’ll be a hero. It’s easy to echo the words that the soldiers delivering Wash’s flag would have said. They’re textbook, after all. Designed to comfort and remind people of the grand duty of the military. About honor and sacrifice and doing the Right Thing.

“I look forward to serving you, sir!” Donut says, and Florida smiles, before getting to his feet and letting the other men into the room.

Then he steps back and lets the technicians do their work.

Donut screams. And screams. And _screams_.

The next time he speaks, he identifies himself as Leonard Church.

He remembers Franklin Donut as a dead man, killed by Agent Texas. Florida nods, and makes the report to Commands.

Things are running very smoothly.

* * *

Agent Washington has three sisters and a younger brother. Agent Washington knows this because a package that in most worlds never makes it to him arrives a week early, letting him know about this.

Agent Washington hasn’t thought about his family in years. They’re… off limits. They’re good memories. _Pure_ memories. Epsilon’s sullied them, and he knows it every time he thinks about them, when he realizes that details are missing or faces are blurry. It’s easier not to think about them, to not wonder what they would think of who he’s become.

Wash has been searching for years to destroy Freelancer. He needs… _something_. A key. A partner. A friend. Anything more than a head full of memories that aren’t his own and a dead AI.

They send him after the Meta, and to do so they ask him to recruit some Sim Troopers.

Caboose… is Caboose. Wash can’t think of any other way to put it.

And then…

And then there’s Leonard Church.

“Oh, fuck you,” Church sneers in the middle of an argument about whether their location is a safe place to camp for the night, and he takes off his helmet and throws it on the ground to demonstrate his unwillingness to go any further. Normally, Wash would keep fighting, because they’ve got a long ways to go still, but instead, he stares at Church’s face.  

The world grinds to a halt.

The last time Wash had seen his little brother, it was a photograph. A rare, real photograph that Martha had slipped into the last package that got through, right before he joined Freelancer. The last _real_ correspondence he had with his family, before faked messages took their place, to hide from him that his family has been mourning him for years.

“ _Frank hates this haircut_ ,” she’d scribbled on the back, “ _But it’s better than what he had before. Plus, I thought you might want something more recent than him in those dresses Mom used to make him wear_.”

The photograph had been one of the few things he’d brought with him to Freelancer. He doesn’t know where it is now—probably lost somewhere in the snow of Sidewinder, or burned in the crash, or tucked away in the Counselor’s drawer somewhere.

But he can still see it, burned into his mind.

Blond hair. Blue eyes. Freckles. A smile that’s kinder than anyone related to Wash has the right to look. The angles are sharper than Wash remembers, and he’s older. The last of the baby fat has melted away, showing that Frank managed to inherit their father’s face.

But it’s definitely _Frank’s_ face. Not one that belongs to Private Church.

“ _Frank_?” Wash chokes out.

“Who?” Church stares at him blankly. His eyes are blue. The same blue as Wash’s, the same blue as Jackie’s.

A horrifying thought begins to creep into his head.

 _Allison, Allison, Allison_ , Epsilon’s voice chants softly in the background of his mind.

Tex, he thinks, cold inside. Church dated _Tex_.

“What’s your first name?” He demands.

“Why the fuck do you need to know that?”

“Answer me!” The world is spinning around Wash and everything is falling out of place and this is _wrong_.

“Leonard! Jesus dude, why are you Freelancers so fucking intense all the time?”

“Church!” Caboose says. “Didn’t you have a friend in the cold place named Franklin?” He pauses. “Not a best friend, obviously, because you can only have one best friend, but you _had a friend named Franklin_!” He nods, proud of himself.

Wash feels cold.

“Oh, right,” Church nods, and Wash wants to scream. “Donut, that’s what we called him. Yeah, he’s dead though.”

“How did he die?” It can’t be a coincidence—Franklin’s letter to him in the package had mentioned that he was writing a book about his own life as a super-spy named Double-Oh-Donut.

“We were stationed at Sidewinder together,” Church shrugs, and Wash tries not to think how much Frank would hate wearing that color blue. “Then Tex was there. There was a lot of fighting. She beat Donut to death with his own skull. He screamed a lot.”

Wash thought about his own screams when they implanted him with Epsilon.

“Yeah,” he says numbly, unable to look at his brother’s face any longer. “I bet he did.”

* * *

They keep moving. Wash tries not to talk to Church much—tries not to even look at him.

They hunt the Meta. Wash kills South. He finds out that Church has a “superpower”. The guy thinks he’s a _mutant_. Normally, Wash would be incredulous at the idea, and do his best to dissuade Church of that notion.

But right now, he’s more intent, because Church’s “superpower” is _projection_.

Which means that, for those periods of time, Church is _out of Frank’s body_.

Wash sends the Reds and Caboose away on a mission, and then sends Church to scout ahead in his holographic form.

“This is a waste of time,” Church complains.

“This is Tex’s crash site,” Wash says. “Her body should be in that building.” It’s low, he knows, but he just wants Church as far away from Frank as he can manage.

Church stares at him. “Well then why the fuck didn’t you just say so?” His white, armored form emerges, and then takes off towards the base. Frank’s body then collapses to the ground, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

The minute Church’s projection is out of sight, Wash takes off his helmet and falls to his knees, checking on his brother.

“Frank?” He says. It’s a pipe dream. Epsilon did a lot damage and he was in Wash only for a short period of time. Caboose had Omega in his head for a few weeks, resulting in extensive damage. And they’re just fragments.

Alpha’s a full AI, and he’s been in Frank’s head for _years_.

“Frank, are you there? Can you hear me?” He gets the helmet off Frank.

His eyes are wide open, but they’re glassy looking and blank. Wash grabs his hand. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” he begs.

Frank can’t be gone. His body is upright and walking, his lungs are still taking in air.

Frank doesn’t so much as twitch. His chest keeps rising and falling.

Wash looks at the blue helmet in his hands.

“I’ll get him out of your head,” he whispers, reluctantly putting the helmet back on. The numbness from earlier is gone, replaced by fire and rage. “I’ll make them all pay for what they did to you.”

Wash has long since planned on burning Freelancer to the ground. For himself, for his friends.

Once, Alpha had been on the list of people he would have wanted to avenge.

Not anymore. Not with his brother’s blue eyes blank and empty behind a helmet.

If he gets Alpha out of his head for _good_ , he can get Frank to a doctor. See if there’s any brain activity. Frank can be himself again. It’ll take time. But Wash managed to pull himself back together out of the shattered pieces Epsilon left him as, and he knows Frank could do the same.

If he can’t…

Wash doesn’t know what he’ll do if Frank’s brain is dead. A part of him whispers it might be better to just end it now. Put a bullet in him. Save everyone the misery.

But he reels away from the idea even as it creeps in, because this is _Frank_. He’ll be okay.

He has to be.

And even if he isn’t…

He’ll have to deal with that later.

He straightens up, trying to tell himself it isn’t painful to let go of Frank’s hand. He draws his gun. He keeps watch.

* * *

Wash burns Freelancer to the ground.

The Alpha dies as he sets of the EMP, and Wash feels a small burst of triumph that doesn’t entirely having to do with the Meta or Freelancer.

Frank is free.

He keeps that thought close to his chest, even as they cuff him and drag him to prison. He’ll be out soon. And Frank is fine.

That’s all that matters.

As the months drag by, the Epsilon unit doesn’t show up. And Wash has no idea where Frank is. Wash starts to think maybe he was wrong. Maybe destroying the Alpha didn’t do anything to help Frank. Maybe he’s going to rot in prison forever without any idea about what happened to his brother, and the thought terrifies him.

Finally, Caboose calls.

He refers to Church’s body. “It does not do much without Church, but I think I can fix it soon! And then we will be best friends again!”

Wash realizes _why_ Epsilon never turned up. It wasn’t that it was destroyed in the EMP blast.

Caboose had never turned it in.

And he was going to _put it in Frank’s head._

Old, hot fury reawakens, and Wash demands to talk to the Chairman.

He’s going to get his brother back. He’s going to get out of this prison.

And anyone who stands in his way is going to regret it.

* * *

Simmons had honestly never expected to see Agent Washington again. The guy had kind of fucked off after the whole thing with Freelancer Command.

So he’s pretty surprised when the Freelancer shows up with the Meta in tow, when it’s just him and Lopez babysitting Church’s old body while everyone else fucks off to the desert to rescue Tucker.

“Why the fuck are you working with the Meta?” Simmons yells.

“That’s really none of your concern,” Agent Washington has his gun leveled at him “Where is he?”

“Who?” Simmons squeaks.

“The host body,” Washington snaps. “Alpha’s host body. Where is he?”

“He’s there!” Simmons yells, pointing towards Red base. Washington lowers his gun slowly, and Simmons starts to relax.

“Don’t let him go anywhere,” Washington says to the Meta, who turns to Simmons with a growl. Simmons gulps.

After a few minutes, Washington emerges, leading Church’s body. He’s guiding it with a hand on the shoulder. He’s dressed it in the familiar blue armor again, instead of the pajamas Caboose had put it in. Simmons is honestly kind of glad. The body’s pretty fucking creepy without Church in it. Grif would probably say it’s not too much of an improvement with Church in it, but Simmons honestly thinks that Church is preferable to the creepy zombie. 

“Now,” Washington says, and Simmons thinks there might be something wrong with his voice, because it seems to tremble for a second. If he wasn’t a Freelancer, Simmons might think he was upset about something. “You’re going to call a medic.”

“Protocol states that we can only call a medic in case of an injury!” Simmons protests, the response more automatic than a legitimate complaint. The minute he says it he realizes that he might have made a mistake, because Washington is clearly out of patience.

He doesn’t even hesitate before firing, and Simmons cries out as the bullet rips through his thigh. At this range his armor doesn’t offer him any protection, so the bullet goes in and out in an instant, although it feels a lot longer, because it _hurts_. He goes down, unable to support his weight.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He yells, trying to find the bullet hole so he can put pressure on it. Oh god, he’s going to bleed out, he’s going to die, and he’s never even told Grif…

Washington kneels down next to him, and presses the barrel of his gun against Simmons’s visor hard enough to push Simmons’ head back. “There,” he says, voice perfectly calm now. “You have an injury. Now _call the damn medic_.”

Simmons does as he’s told.

* * *

“Well?” Wash keeps his gun pressed against the medic’s head. Doc is what Simmons called him. A stupid name. He’s somehow unsurprised to learn that Alpha was responsible for it.

“Well,” the man says, drawing it out for a long time, as if worried about what Wash will do when he finishes talking. “I mean, I’m no expert on brain activity, but there’s definitely something there! Which is weird, because I thought the guys said that Church was dead!”

Wash pushes Doc away from Frank, pressing him against the wall of the base, and holds his gun against the underside of the man’s chin. “He’s _not_ Church,” he growls, only barely stopping himself from pulling the trigger.

“Alright, alright!” Doc holds his hands up. “But something’s blocking my readings, and I can’t figure out what it is!”

Wash freezes as he realizes what it has to be. The chip. He’d forgotten— _the chip was still in Frank’s head_.

“Get moving,” Wash says, letting Doc down from the wall, only to shove him forward, sending the man stumbling. He wants to turn, put his hand on Frank’s shoulder, tell him he’ll be back soon, but he can’t afford to show weakness. Bad enough the Meta probably knows something’s up.

He drags Doc back to the Meta, who’s guarding Simmons, who seems to be incredibly terrified. Which makes sense, since the Meta clearly is running out of patience. The broken form of the robot is on the ground, which indicates.

“Hang on, I’ve got a lead,” he lies, and then goes back to Frank.

He takes the helmet off as gently as he can. Frank’s eyes are still not seeing him, but he’s pretty sure they’re clearer than before.

“Alright,” Wash says, moving behind him so he can access the implantation site.

Wash only knows how to do this from their AI classes. He never had the chance to pull Epsilon himself. Carefully, he starts pulling it out.

He hopes this works. The Alpha might have stopped being actually stored in the chip once he figured out how to jump, but there might be enough memory of the Alpha there still to prevent Frank’s personality from asserting itself, even after the Alpha is dead.

The chip comes out, and Wash heaves a sigh of relief as it comes out clean. He remembers the horror stories from back at Freelancer about bloody or infected implantation sites. And, since Alpha hadn’t even realized he was an AI, he probably hadn’t ever done proper maintenance or care.

But it seemed to not have mattered. The chip is fine. Intact, whole, useless. And, more importantly, it doesn’t seemed to have hurt Frank in the process.

He quickly moves around Frank so he can check him again.

He thinks his eyes are clearer. They seem to be moving, focusing slightly.

“Frank?” He asks, quietly. “Do you know me?”

The mouth opens, and Wash feels hope spark in his chest, but no words come out. Instead, Frank just opens and shut his mouth several times. It looks like he’s chewing something.  

Wash sighs.

“Well, we’ll take you back to Doc,” he mutters, brushing Frank’s hair out of his face. “See if he can get anything better now that the chip’s out at least.” He helps Frank back into his helmet, and then starts leading him to where the others are.

Wash wonders if it’s his imagination that Frank seems to need less guidance this time.

He gets back. “Did you scan the Meta?” He asks Doc abruptly.

“Uh, yes,” Doc says, looking like he’d really rather be anywhere but here.

“Good. What did you notice?”

“He’s fine!” Doc says. “Perfectly healthy and capable of making all the threatening sounds.”

Wash grits his teeth, because that’s _not_ what he wants to know. It’s nice that the Meta is in fighting shape, yes, but he wants to know about the Meta’s _brain_. There isn’t exactly precedent for what happened to Frank, so Maine is pretty much as good as it gets. If Sigma damaged Maine beyond repair, the odds of Frank being able to recover are very slim. “Check him over again,” he says, indicating to Frank. “I think I’ve solved the problem.”

The Meta lets out a growl. Wash tosses him the Alpha’s chip. It’s useless, but it should pacify the Meta for now. “Alpha’s original chip. He’s not there anymore, but it’s another way to trap Epsilon if we need to.”

He turns his attention back to Simmons. “Caboose had Epsilon,” he says. He doesn’t draw his gun—there’s no need, not with the Meta looming threateningly in the background. Simmons is sitting on the ground, whimpering about his leg. Wash rolls his eyes at the theatrics—he didn’t shoot him lethally. “Where are they?”

At that point, Sarge decides to wander into the canyon. Wash grits his teeth. He needs to go investigate, but he doesn’t want to leave Frank alone with the Meta.

But he doesn’t really have a choice.

“Keep an eye on them,” he orders. “If they cause any trouble, shoot the medic and the Red.”

The Meta tilts his head towards Frank and grunts.

“I’m not done with him yet,” Wash says, doing his best to keep his voice casual, as if the thought of the Meta shooting Frank doesn’t make him want to stab the Meta in the throat. “And he’s not a threat, so it would just be a waste of a bullet.”

The Meta gives him an unimpressed look. Probably for accidentally implying Doc or Simmons could be a threat. It had taken about three seconds in Doc’s company for Wash to learn that the man was a pacifist, had formerly been possessed by Omega, was actually incompetent at practicing medicine, and was really, _really_ annoying.

“I’m not done with him,” Wash repeats himself, and he can feel Simmons’ eyes on him, burning with curiosity. “Now, I’ll go deal with this. You keep an eye on the prisoners.”

* * *

“You brought the  _body_ ?” Grif yells at Simmons as they tear out of the canyon, Epsilon’s laser and a stone wall the only thing between them and vengeful Freelancers.

“Wash has some sort of evil plan with it!” Simmons yells, dragging it with him. He does feel a little bad bringing the body and not Doc, but Doc was stuck in a wall, so Simmons thinks it’s a perfectly acceptable choice, really.

“Are we sure it’s an evil plan? Because fuck dude, those take a lot of effort to disrupt.”

“ _I don’t know_ , but the guy fucking shot me, so I don’t think it’s a nice one!” His leg still fucking hurts. Doc had cleaned it with an alcohol swipe and then made him drink a glass of fucking orange juice. Which is about standard for medical treatment, but it doesn’t change the fact that it _really hurts_.

The body seems to stumble slightly. It’s slow moving, which means he’s really more dragging than leading. Which is totally unfair. Washington didn’t have this sort of trouble. Although Washington probably threatened it or something to get it to behave.  

Epsilon lowers himself to look at it. “Wow it—I look really terrible,” he says, circling slowly to get a better look. “Are you guys even feeding me?”

“It’s your fucking body, jackass, you look after it,” Simmons snaps, leaning against Grif for support. His leg fucking _hurts_.

“Ugh, I hope Caboose can figure out how to get me back in there,” Church says. “Being a floating robot is cool and all, but I miss my body.” He got close to the face.

The body tilts its head, and then it knocks Church out of its face with a backhand.

“What the fuck!” Church howls, flying backwards.

“Uh, it never did _that_ before,” Grif says, staring slightly. It’s moved back to resting position, staring blankly into the air.

“Washington… I think he did something to it,” Simmons says. “He had this chip thing that he said Alpha used to be in?”

“That’s stupid,” Church says. “There wouldn’t be a chip, this is my body!”

“He gave it to the Meta,” Simmons points out.

“Probably just to calm the guy down or something!” Church snaps. “This is _my body_.”

“Dude, we know, it’s been fucking useless since you died,” Grif drawls.

“Washington,” Church grumbles, floating close to his body again. “What a fucking douche.”

The body hits him again.

“Seriously! What the fuck is happening?” Church yells. This time he collides with a tree. The body apparently has more upper body strength than they suspected.  

“Probably some wires crossed or somethin’ when Agent Washington was fiddlin’ in your noggin, don’t you worry,” Sarge grunts, unconcerned. He pauses, thoughtful. “Since your body keeps hittin’ ya, blue, do you think that means your body is a red?”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Church seethes, which Sarge is probably going to take as a ‘yes’.

* * *

Donut is very confused, and his head hurts something dreadful.

Everything is foggy and murky—it’s like he’s looking at the world through some sort of warped glass. Or a carnival mirror. He remembers David being there, but he’s gone now, and Donut doesn’t like it. He doesn’t know who these people are, only that they’re wearing brightly colored armor and seem to be arguing a lot. They keep dragging him around and talking about him like he’s not there. They never use his name either. Donut doesn’t like it.

The worst one is the floating ball guy. Donut can’t exactly figure out what he’s saying, but he knows it’s bad. Especially when it gets close to him.

His limbs move slowly, like they are reluctant to respond to his commands, but his still manages to hit it every time it gets too close.

At one point, the one in red armor has him lie down. “You need rest, son,” he says gruffly, and it’s the first time any of them have treated Donut like a person. Donut decides he likes the red one, even if he’s not sure about the others.

Donut doesn’t rest though. Instead he picks up all the rocks he can manage and carries them in his hands. He’s not sure if he can throw things yet, but things are getting easier. He wants to be able to hit the floating thing even when he’s out of range. When none of the others are looking, he tries throwing at the trees. He’s slow. His aim is off—his body seems to be used to aiming too far to the left, so he has to be careful. It’s not automatic anymore, not the way it used to be. But over the course of the night, while the others are sleeping, he manages to coax his body to remember how to aim straight and true.

The blue one wanders up to him and talks to him for a very long time. But he’s calling him the wrong name and he doesn’t seem to expect Donut to respond, and then the ball starts yelling at him, and Donut realizes that the blue one wasn’t actually talking to him.

Or… the thoughts come slowly, almost agonizingly so. Or the blue one thinks the floating ball _is_ him. Or that he’s the floating ball. He’s not sure which.

Something in him has an almost visceral reaction to that. He suddenly wants to get as far away from them all as he can manage. He doesn’t like the sand. He doesn’t like the floating ball. Even the nice red one doesn’t make him want to stay. He wants his brother.

He doesn’t know where David is—he remembers him going to check on something and then leaving and then the maroon one was dragging him away. But he thinks that these guys are running away from David, so when none of them are looking, he hides.

David will come for him. He’s sure of it.

* * *

Wash and the Meta find Frank in the desert, and Wash manages to hide his relief, but Frank doesn’t hide his joy to see him.

He’s _better_ , Wash thinks. When he takes Frank’s helmet off to check on him, he’s smiling. His eyes now follow movement, and he doesn’t need to be guided as much. He follows Wash around everywhere, which reminds Wash terribly of when they were young. Only then, usually Mitch would be carrying Frank and Wash would be carrying Jackie, while Martha followed them, the old farm dog hot on her heels.

The Meta has to know something’s up. He thinks Doc does too.

He can hear Doc talking to Frank at night, when he thinks Wash is asleep. It’s just… talking. But at least he’s talking _to_ Frank. He’s acting like Frank’s a person.

So Wash lets it slide.

“So,” Doc says, sidling up to him. “You said he’s not Church.”

“He’s _not_ ,” Wash snaps.

“Do you know him?” Doc asks. “You never call him anything.”

Wash stares ahead.

It’s a risk. It’s probably a tactical error. He’s giving a captive ammunition to use against him; information that he’ll tell the Reds and Blues the minute he manages to escape.

But the thought of someone actually calling Frank his name trumps that.

“Donut,” he says, finally. It feels _right_ to say. “Franklin Donut.”

Doc nods.

He hears Doc call Frank Donut the next day, and Frank _laughs_.

Wash hasn’t heard his brother’s voice—his _real_ voice, not the facsimile the Alpha spoke with—in years. He pauses, and he smiles, beneath his helmet.

Frank is still in there. He’s sure of it.

* * *

Epsilon and Texas have new bodies and Wash sees  _red_ .

He wonders who it was they chose this time, whose brains they ripped apart just so they could have their own bodies.

Frank yells.

The Meta turns on him.

Wash fights.

He’s losing blood fast, but he stands his ground, because the Meta is _looking_ at him, and he keeps trying to get to Frank, and Wash can’t let that happen, not when Frank is only just starting to come back.

The Meta kills Texas. Instead of blood, there is sparks.

Wash nearly buckles with relief because _they’re not human_. They’re robots.

Then he’s swallowed by a tide of anger because if robots could work the entire time, _why did they do that to Frank_?

The Reds and Blues kill the Meta. Wash passes out from blood loss. He grabs Doc’s arm. He’s going to die here. He won’t be able to protect Frank anymore, not from anyone. But especially not from Epsilon.

Epsilon has destroyed enough already. He _doesn’t_ get Frank. 

“Don’t let Epsilon in his head,” he begs. He sounds pathetic, but he doesn’t care, because this is his _brother_ , and his words are all he has left to defend him. “ _Please_. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“I won’t,” Doc says, his voice oddly soothing. “I promise.”

Everything goes dark.

When he wakes up, they’ve put him in Frank’s armor and spray-painted Epsilon’s armor pink and put that on Frank. “He’s the new recruit for Red Team!” Sarge declares, and Wash barely manages to keep on his feet long enough to say “Present” when Church’s name is called.

Caboose throws a fit when the Reds try to take Frank on the pelican, so the two teams take warthogs instead.

When they stop for the night, everyone stares when Frank climbs out of the vehicle and sits next to Wash.

“Frank,” he says, exhausted. “Not now.”

“Who the fuck is Frank?” Tucker—or at least, Wash assumes he’s Tucker—demands.

“ _He’s_ Frank,” Wash snaps, gesturing to Frank, his patience worn thin. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long _month_. He’s lightheaded from blood loss and his ribs are broken and he’s just had his death faked again, and everything is getting under his skin far too easily. He’s letting the Sim Troopers get to him, but he’s too exhausted to care.

“No,” Caboose says slowly. “That is Church’s body, Agent Washington!”

“He’s _not_!” Wash yells, furious, getting to his feet and taking a single, menacing step forward. He doesn’t know what he’s intending to do—attack the man who was responsible for convincing the others to save his life, maybe?—but then Frank grabs his arm, holding him back.

“David,” he says, almost too softly to hear.  

Wash freezes.

“Frank?” He asks, forgetting about Caboose completely. “Frank? Do you know me?” He kneels down next to him, looking earnestly for a sign that what he heard was real.

“David,” Frank says again, stronger this time. “Found—you.”

Wash starts to laugh. He laughs and he laughs, leaning his head back against the warthog. Tears are leaking out of the side of his eyes, hidden by his helmet.

He places a hand on Frank’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, when he’s finally calmed down. The Sim Troopers are all staring at him, but Wash doesn’t care. “I guess you did.”

Tucker is the one to break the silence. “What, you two dating or something?”

Wash rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the aqua trooper, but Frank shakes his head. Which means he’s more aware than Wash realized. He’s _listening_ , not just reacting to Wash’s presence. He’s paying attention to the others, too. He can comprehend what is being said and respond to it.

“Brother,” Donut says, and then promptly falls asleep on Wash’s shoulder. Wash can’t help but smile at that. It’s... hearing Frank’s voice again is like coming home. Wash hasn’t been home in a very long time.

He wonders how long it will take him to figure out a way to get them back to the farm. A warzone, even a fake one, is no place for Frank to be. He’ll need to recover. Home would be a good place for that.

Everyone is staring at them, even Caboose. Wash can’t help but notice that Doc doesn’t seem surprised. He wonders how much Doc put together while they were in the desert.

“What the fuck,” Simmons whispers.

“Are you _kidding me_?” Tucker explodes. 

“Wait, does that mean that there was—oh my god that is so fucked up!” Grif yells.

Wash ignores all of them, and pretends to go to sleep to avoid the questions. He ends up actually dozing off, his head resting against Frank’s helmet, his back against the warthog.

* * *

They settle in Valhalla. Wash somehow ends up as leader of the Blue Team. The Reds have claimed custody of Frank, which Wash tolerates only because at least they call him Donut, unlike Caboose, who calls both Wash and Frank Church.

Frank’s getting better with speaking. Doc stuck around, and he claims to know physical therapy, so he works with Frank for hours on end, trying to get Frank back into shape.

Wash talks to him whenever he has the chance, telling him about Freelancer, about the farm.

But he still has to handle Tucker and Caboose’s problems, so he can’t spend all the time with his brother.

One day, Tucker finally boils over, after Wash comes back from two hours of determining if Frank should be allowed to have a gun.

“You fucking got Church killed on purpose, didn’t you?” Tucker demands.

Wash looks at him, surprised he even had to ask. “Yes.”

Tucker looks like he wants to punch him. “Was it worth it? Was Church dying worth your fucking revenge?”

Wash nods without hesitation. “Frank’s _alive_ ,” he says.

Tucker stares at him. “What, was Church killing him?”

“He might as well have been!” Wash snaps. Doc’s managed to show him scans of what Frank’s brain looks like, and it makes Wash want to go find the Epsilon unit so he can rip it apart piece by piece. “What about how Frank is now makes you think that what Church did was good for him?”

“I don’t know I just—” Tucker scowls, crossing his arms, before sitting down with a sigh. He cradles his head in his hands, and Wash forces himself to remember that Tucker lost a friend. A close friend, if not a good one. “Why couldn’t they both have lived?”

“Alpha dying was what finally allowed Donut to assert himself instead of being catatonic whenever Alpha left his body, Tucker,” Wash says quietly, sitting down next to him.

Tucker growls, and pushes his hair back out of his face. It’s too long—it’s violating so many regulations that Wash can’t count them all, but he also doesn’t care anymore. They’re rubbing off on him. “This is all bullshit,” Tucker says, his fists clenching. “Donut didn’t deserve that but—Church didn’t either, y’know? He was an asshole but…” He trails off.

“I know he didn’t mean to,” Wash finally says, staring out the window, where he can see Donut waving a flag and laughing at whatever it is Grif and Simmons are saying. “But the damage is done.”

“He’s getting better though,” Tucker offers. “Isn’t he?”  

“He is,” Wash admits. He watches Frank throw the flag, hitting Simmons hard enough to knock the maroon soldier flat on his back. “He’s making a lot of progress.”

Tucker’s shoulders slump. “Fucking Freelancer,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

“Fucking Freelancer,” Wash agrees wholeheartedly.

* * *

“Who’s that?” Carolina asks, glancing at Frank, who’s hovering again. He’s having a bad day, so he’s being quiet. On good days, Frank almost never shuts up. But today’s a rough one, and so it’s almost reminiscent of being back in the desert, with Frank dogging Wash’s footsteps and trying to touch him constantly, to reassure himself that Wash is really there.

Wash bites his lip, trying to determine how much to tell her. Frank doesn’t speak up. He’s looking at the ground, examining the flowers that are growing.

“This is Donut,” he says, eventually. “They implanted the Alpha in him.”

Carolina reels back. “They did _what_?”

“Alpha completely overcame Donut’s personality,” Wash says. “He’s healing, but it’s… slow. Today’s a bad day.”

Carolina stares at Donut. “The Director did that,” she whispers. Wash can’t see her face. He doesn’t know what she’s thinking.

“Yes,” he says. Then, he adds, slowly. “He’s my brother, Carolina.”

Carolina looks between them. “So that’s why you stayed,” she says.

Wash thinks about capture the flag, and running drills in the morning, and Tucker cooking dinner at night. “Part of it,” he says.

She gives him an odd look, but doesn’t ask. “Do you think… Texas?”

Wash hesitates. “Probably,” he says. “It makes sense.”

Carolina’s hands are curled into fists by her side. “I’m going after him,” she says. There can only be one _him_. “I could… I could use your help.”

Wash pauses, looking at Frank. Frank’s gotten bored, and wandered off to go bother Grif and Simmons. Wash says bother because he _knows_ Frank is doing it on purpose. He enjoys getting a rise out of the other two Reds.

“What’s your plan?” He asks. The two of them watch the Sim Troopers begin to chase each other around the canyon, yelling ridiculous threats. Frank is _very_ good at getting a rise out of the others. Wash winces at the thought, realizing that his brother’s double entendres are starting to catch.

“We get Epsilon. He can help us find the Director.”

Wash looks at Frank, who’s tackled Tucker to the ground. The sound of his laughter rings through Wash’s ears.

Laughter that Epsilon would steal from Donut if he had the chance.

“He doesn’t get to go _near_ Frank,” Wash says, fiercely. “If he even looks at him funny…”

“Did he—?”

“He _tried_ ,” Wash snarls. He remembers how afraid he was when he realized that Simmons had managed to lead Frank away. He remembers staring at the pile of rubble Epsilon had left behind and thinking, _He’s got Frank_. He was so close to losing him all over again, and it still makes his blood boil to think about it. “It was only luck that Frank found me before he managed. If he had…”

If Epsilon had implanted, Wash doubts his brother would be here now, cheerfully throwing flash grenades at Tucker and Caboose while Sarge urges him on. Epsilon is wild, uncontrolled, unthinking. He ripped up Wash’s mind apart like it was tissue paper, and Wash’s implants were designed to help him. Doc has had a close look at Frank’s implants. Even Doc can tell that Frank’s implants were designed to make the takeover process as easy as possible for Alpha.

If Epsilon got in Frank’s brain, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

“He won’t touch Donut, Wash,” Carolina says. She touches his arm in a way that’s gentler than he’s ever known her to be. “I promise.”

Wash takes a breath, centering himself. He thinks about the Director. He thinks about Epsilon. He thinks about Frank. “I’ll talk to the others,” Wash says, finally, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining Carolina’s shoulders slumping with relief.

* * *

Wash kneels down. Carolina and Epsilon have gone ahead, gone to finish things, but he has to  _know_ .

“You think they’re like me?” Frank seems to be swaying where he stands. He was fine in combat—throwing grenades, following orders. But now that it’s over, it’s sinking in. They might have just killed regular people whose only crime was getting close enough for the Director to shove his corrupted Texas program into.

“I don’t know,” Wash says, but he pulls the helmet off the nearest one.

He’s praying for robots—robots like Epsilon, like the Texas they fought on Sidewinder. He wants to see severed wires and computer chips and synthetic skin.

What he gets instead is the dead eyes of a woman with hair that’s been bleached blonde.

He staggers back, bile rising in his throat. “They’re _people_ ,” he calls. “Check for pulses!”

What Epsilon did might not have killed them. Wash has to hope, has to pray that this is the case.

“I’ve got life signs!” Doc yells.

“Got a pulse!” Simmons says.

“Normally I’d consider it shameful for an enemy to survive the brutal assault of the Red Army! However, in the case of dirty underhanded brainwashing, I’ll suspend my dishonor!”

It wasn’t bloodless. Wash hates himself, trying not to go through the battle mentally, see which of the bullets were his. The separated the dead from the living, and Doc tried to help the ones worse off.

Wash stares at the blank eyes of the man he’s helping out of armor now, and he swears he recognizes him from Freelancer. One of the medical personnel, he thinks. As he settles the man down for Doc to check on, he notices he hasn’t heard Frank speak in a while, and looks around.

Frank has curled himself into a ball in the corner, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, his helmet off. Wash can see tears streaming down his face, hot and fast. As he approaches, he can hear the choked sound of sobs.

“Frank,” he says, kneeling next to him. “Frank, it’s fine. They’re going to be okay.”

Frank shakes his head, but he can’t say anything, because he’s still sobbing too hard.

Wash reaches out and wraps his arms around his brother. “He’s not going to hurt anyone else,” he says. “He’s done hurting people. I promise. And we’re going to get them help.”

“Can we go home?” Frank asks, desperately. “Can we go home now? Please?”

“We’ll go home,” Wash says, although the words are heavy, because how is he going to explain _this_ to their sisters, to their parents?

“I promise.”

* * *

They get medals. Epsilon fakes Donut’s paperwork, spoofs him to look like a Sim Trooper, and they all line up for a photo with the Chairman, and Wash tries to avoid him as best he can, because  _that’s_ a conversation he wants to avoid.

The Texas copies they fought turn out to be Freelancer personnel who’d been reported AWOL or MIA. They’ve been taken into rehabilitation facilities. Most are already showing signs of progress.

They board a ship that’s heading back to Earth. The others aren’t sure what they’re going to do, but Frank presses himself against Wash’s side and they talk quietly about the farm.

They’re going home.

Home to the house with the willow tree in the front yard and Jackie’s geese and the sign with the family name on it by the entrance to the driveway. Home, where Mitch has probably taken over most of the actual work by now, and Mom and Dad are probably retired, so Dad probably has more time for cooking and Mom is probably working on trying to convince Jackie that the geese are a waste of space and feed.

Home, which Wash walked away from and didn’t look back.

Wash tries not to think about how much they’re going to hate him for disappearing on them, for letting them bury him and not sending them a single sign over the years. At least Frank has an excuse. Wash has none.

But Wash has to go, because Frank needs him, and at least he knows even Martha will bow to that need. He might not be forgiven, but he’ll be accepted.

He can live with that, he thinks, as Frank starts to ramble about how he wonders if Jackie’s finished with college yet. He’ll make do.

And of course, then the ship crashes onto a planet called Chorus.

* * *

Frank is safe. Tucker is safe. Caboose is safe. Wash grits his teeth, and yells.

“Freckles! Shake!”

He wakes up and he realizes his mistake.

His little brother is kidnapped by terrorists. Wash’s hands curl into fists and he spends his days trying to contact Carolina, because she _has_ to help.

She never seems to get any of his messages. The radios on this planet are terrible, and Wash can’t seem to fix them.

Wash grits his teeth and trains the soldiers Doyle asks him to. He works with Sarge and Lopez and Grif and tries not to think about his brother and his team, alone with the enemy.

“Calm down,” Grif says to him. “Dude, Donut can survive fucking _anything_. He’ll make it. You’ll see.”

Wash wishes he could believe him.

“We’ll get them back, son,” Sarge slaps him roughly on the shoulder one day while they’re pouring over maps, trying to narrow down the location of the rebel’s base. “Those no-good rebels aren’t going to stand a chance against our united forces!”

“What united forces?” Wash asks, exhausted to his bone. He’s pretty sure Locus was following him today. Doyle’s already reprimanded him for arguing with Locus three times this week.

Wash can’t help it. The guy gives him the creeps. The fact that it’s _his_ fault that they’re split up really doesn’t make anything better.

“Why, the mighty forces of the Reds and Blues, of course! Obviously, Reds are the superior army, but I’ve come to realize that you and your men, Agent Washington, are truly a worthy enemy! The enemy will tremble!”

Wash sighs. “I guess.” God he misses Valhalla. Things were easier there.

Sarge gives him one of his oddly perceptive looks. “Donut will be fine,” he says. “Simmons knows how to deal with those screamin’ dream things, and yer boyfriend’s picked up a few tricks to cheer him up.”

Wash freezes. “ _What_?”

“Yer boyfriend! The teal one!”

“Aqua,” Wash corrects automatically, and then he pauses, because that was the wrong thing to correct and starts blushing brightly. “Wait, no, I mean—”

But it’s too late. The Reds are convinced. Wash just has to pray they don’t mention it to Tucker, otherwise he’ll never be able to take off his helmet again.

* * *

Donut is a Captain now, even if his squad is the wrong color.

“It’s _lightish-red_ ,” he complains to Tucker, who’s been sticking close to him a lot lately. It’s kind of sweet, if misplaced. He knows Tucker’s mostly doing it for David. But it’s… nice, not to be alone.

Since they got separated, the nightmares have been worse. The worst part is that Donut doesn’t even remember them. He just knows he screams. Not even names, or words. Just… screams. Never ending, howling, screams.

Doc says that it’s probably because his brain interprets sleeping as being back under Alpha’s control. That Donut was trying to scream the whole time he didn’t have control of his body, but now that he has control, he actually can do it.

Sometimes Donut privately thinks Doc needs to work on his bedside manner.

“Dude, will you shut up about that already?” Tucker complains, shoving Donut’s MRE under his nose. “Eat up, Wash will kill me if you’ve lost weight when we find him.”

“I’m putting on weight!” Donut protests. “ _All_ muscle, too!”

Tucker sighs. “Just eat, Donut. You missed breakfast again today because you were playing with your computers again.”

Donut makes a face, but complies. Apparently, one of the side-effect of having an AI in your head for years was suddenly being fairly good with computers.

Donut’s family wasn’t very good with technology. Martha could change the oil in a car, David could figure out why the internet wasn’t working, but further than that, they got lost pretty quickly. Until now. Kimball’s been having Donut work on classified intelligence files she got her hands on, and Donut’s been having a fair bit of luck getting into them.

The files he’s working on right now might have David’s location on them.

He eats quickly. He needs to get back to work.

* * *

They find each other again.

Felix betrays them.

Carolina finds them with Church at her side.

And for a few moments, they are blessedly, contentedly, quietly together.

Tucker watches as Wash and Donut drift towards each other, but don’t hug outright, still cautious, as if afraid the other will vanish into thin air if they try.

Carolina calls Wash away to talk strategy with Doctor Grey, and Tucker moves in to check on Donut. He knows he doesn’t have to, not now that Wash is here, but it’s kind of a fucking habit by now, and at this point, Tucker might as well admit that the guy’s a friend. He’s one of them.

“So…” Church’s appears, and drifts close towards them. Tucker glances up, checking on Wash and Carolina’s location. Surprisingly, Church is focused on Donut. “You… got promoted?”

Tucker watches, fascinated, as Donut flicks his wrist, and a pebble flies through Church’s projection… right at the crotch.

“What the fuck!” Church yells, his projection disappearing and reappearing to the side. Another rock follows, also hitting its mark.

“Personal boundaries,” Donut says, sing-song, and then he throws another rock as Church rematerializes.

Tucker starts laughing. “Dude! Your aim is _good_.”

“Thanks, Tucker!” Donut says, turning to him with a great beam. “My dad always said I was great at tossing!”

Tucker smirks. “Oh dude, I bet you are!”

“Oh my god you two can never be allowed alone together, this is— _you weren’t even looking that time_!”

“It took me _ages_ to get my tossing skills back to where they used to be,” Donut says. “Apparently having Church in my head meant his bad aim caught on!”

“Well, I always heard that Church couldn’t hit what he was looking for,” Tucker snickers, and Church shouts indignantly before Donut nails him again with yet another pebble.

“ _How many of those are you carrying_?” Church shrieks.

“Dude. Don’t ask,” Grif says. “Also, you probably should stop trying to talk to him before Wash realizes what you’re doing.”

Church pauses, then goes away, grumbling the whole while.

* * *

“Alright, Price,” Felix says, twirling his knife in his hands. “You know the Sim Troopers, right?”

“Yes,” Price gives him one of those meaningless looks.

“So, what’s the deal with Donut?” Felix leans in.

“Franklin Delano Donut,” Price says, calm and controlled as ever. “Originally slated to be a Simulation Trooper, he was recruited by Agent Florida to be the host for the Alpha AI.” He tilts his head. “I am surprised he’s still alive.”

“Oh, he’s alive alright,” Felix hisses. “And a right pain in the ass. Is the AI thing why he’s so good with tech?”

For the first time, Felix thinks he sees something in Price’s eyes.

Surprise.

“He… has cognitive brain function?” Price steeples his fingers.

“He fucking talks, he fights, he annoys the fuck out of me, so I’m going with _yes_ ,” Felix snaps.

Price frowns. “Interesting…” He glances at Felix. “I wonder, how does Agent Washington act towards… Donut?”

“How the fuck would I know?” Felix says. “Never really saw them together.”

“Agent Washington showed a great deal of concern for Donut’s safety while with the Federal Army,” Locus says, and _fuck_ , Felix hates it when he does that. “Almost… undue concern. Is it because of his own experiences with the Epsilon AI?”

“Although I believe Agent Washington would have been sympathetic towards Donut’s plight,” Price says, and Felix swears there’s something of a smile beginning on the man’s face. “His concern undoubtedly also stems from the fact that Franklin Donut is his younger brother.”

Felix rocks back in his chair, a smile of his own starting to form. “I _see_.”

“Agent Florida selected Franklin Donut for his role specifically because of his relation to Washington. He believed that the family would be predisposed to be more vulnerable to AI.”

“Was he right?” Felix asks.

“No,” Price says bluntly. “The Epsilon AI would have destroyed any mind it was implanted into upon the early stages of its life, and the Alpha could take over any mind that underwent the procedures Donut underwent. In fact, the Omega AI eventually learned to take immediate control over anyone, so long as rudimentary implants existed. If our projections were correct, he would have eventually overcame even the need for that, and it’s possible Alpha could have as well, with enough time.” Price glances at Locus. “However, Agent Florida rarely did things with only one reason in mind. I don’t doubt Donut’s relationship with Agent Washington played a role in his selection beyond any supposed vulnerability to AI.”

“Seems like a stand-up guy,” Felix says. “So,” he leans forward. “What do we do about Franklin Donut?”

* * *

Locus can’t help but feel vaguely amused as Felix stumbles back to base slightly singed and staggering.

“Fucking kid brother,” Felix is firmly planted face-first on the floor of the shuttle. “Fucking grenades. That aim is fucking _unholy_ , what the fuck is wrong with that family?”

Locus can’t help but feel that Felix got what he deserved for taking time off to pursue his vendetta. “You were bested by a Simulation Trooper. _Again_ ,” Locus observes.

“He had p _lasma grenades_. I never want to see another fucking plasma grenade as long as I live.”

Locus sighs, and pilots the shuttle away from the fight, doing his best to tune out Felix’s complaints.

* * *

They unite the armies of Chorus.

They fight a bitter war.

They kill Felix.

Locus runs away.

And then…

And then Epsilon dies.

He left a message for Donut, but Donut doesn’t want to watch it. Doesn’t want to listen to apologies he could never have listened to when he was alive, because Church’s voice made him want to scream and flinch.

 _“My body_ ,” he remembers Church saying. Like he was… like he was a _thing_.

Donut knows he didn’t know better. He knows Alpha didn’t have a choice. He knows Epsilon just assumed he was a clone or a robot or something without a mind of his own, but it still _burns_ and _itches_ , and makes Donut want to curl up in a corner.

He’ll never say it out loud, because it’s mean and unfair, especially to Carolina and to Caboose, but he can’t help but feel that Church always ruins _everything_. The Director. Alpha. Epsilon.

They _won_. It should have been a good thing.

But now they have to deal with _this_.

Donut avoids Caboose and Tucker. It’s not fair on them, because they’re grieving, but a part of Donut is terrible and is relieved that Church is gone, because now maybe Donut can stop collecting pebbles to throw if he needs to drive Epsilon away, maybe now the color cobalt won’t make him flinch.

He’s not… not _glad_ that Church is dead. But he also isn’t mourning.

It feels almost like closure, and that’s bitter, because he knows it’s not fair. Death isn’t closure.

David sits next to him, and they watch the sun set over Chorus. Their ship leaves tomorrow. They’re going _home_.

Donut doesn’t ask David to promise this time. He knows better. He just hopes they get closer. It feels like Chorus brought them even further away from the farm than before.

“Are you sad he’s gone?” Donut finally asks.

Wash looks at him. “… sometimes,” Wash admits, quietly.

Donut stares at his hands. “I hope the others recognize us,” he finally says.

“They will,” Wash says, digging his fingers into Donut’s shoulders comfortingly. The weight is familiar and nice. “I recognized your face when you were scowling and needed a haircut. And you know Jackie’s a hell of a lot smarter than I am.”

Donut chokes on a laugh. “We should probably go to bed,” he says, reluctantly.

“Yes,” David agrees.

They don’t move for another hour still.


	6. With You I Am Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coda; back to the farm, where it all began

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still can’t believe you guys let me do this; I never thought I’d be able to write five AUs centered on my own self-indulgent little headcanon and certainly not three of them being about my OCs. Thank you all for sticking with me through this! Now, the coda. Let’s revisit the return to the farm, shall we?
> 
> Warnings: No real warnings for this one, although there are references to the events of the AUs!

**This is a lie:** His name is Wash and he’s lying on his back beneath the tree and his friends are all around him, alive and whole.

**This is a lie:** Her name is Agent Michigan of Project Freelancer and she’s been implanted with the Epsilon AI against her will two times.

But this time they’re on the ship and her family’s going to die, so she spins towards Tucker, and yells “Epsilon!” And he leaps towards her, and her brothers yell, “No!” But it’s okay, because this time, they finally succeed.

**This is a lie:** She is the General, she is Medusa, she is Martha, and she dies in a nuclear explosion in the heart of a city she calls her own, and it’s fire and heat and terror.

They build a statue for her, right outside the prison building they drag Locus to when they finally catch him. He doesn’t look at it as he sits in his cell.

**This is a lie:** Her name is Jackie and she spat in Felix’s face after he killed a man in front of her, her hands shaking and her heart racing, but she did it to prove a _point_ , and so she has no regrets, she writes this in her manuscript as she sits next to her brother, who still watches her like she’ll disappear if he so much as blinks.

**This is a lie:** His name is Franklin Delano Donut, and he sat across from Butch Flowers and they tore his brain apart and put another person inside of it, and he is a _person_ , not a body, and he still has bad days, but he’s _healing_ , and that’s what matters, in the end.

**This is true:** Agent Washington has three sisters and a brother. The brothers go to war. Mitch becomes a farmer, Martha becomes a carpenter, Jackie becomes a psychologist. Mitch falls in love with a grounded pilot and brings her home. Martha has a dog. Jackie attaches a ‘doctor’ to the beginning of her name.

Mitch and Andi get married at city hall, and Mitch wears a flannel shirt and her best pair of jeans. They have two kids.

Then they get the word that Frank’s going to be discharged. Frank’s coming _home_.

Mitch buys enough pink paint to last a lifetime, and she calls Martha and Jackie, and they all get on the ladders and put on their worst clothes and paint the house.

“Lightish-red!” Jackie laughs, a large pink smear on her face.

“Only the best for our little brother,” Mitch laughs. She probably shouldn’t be quite so active, so soon after Joel, but she’s not meant to stand still. She’s a farmer. She’s doesn’t know how to be idle or clean.

They all go inside and eat Andi’s cooking, and they all talk about what Frank will want to do when he comes home.

They get word later that week that the ship is missing. Crashed.

Mitch is practical at heart. They all are. It’s been over a decade, and David is still MIA. They know better than to wait. They know better than to hope.

Days turn into weeks which turn into months which turn into years.

Then they get word that Frank’s alive, and he’s coming _home_. That weird planet on the news, with grand conspiracies and alien weapons and treason charges, was where he was trapped, and he’s coming home, and he’s bringing a friend that they all know is going to be that boyfriend of his that he’s been gushing about for ages.

Andi takes the kids and goes into town so they can have time to adjust. Dad takes over the kitchen with his usual enthusiasm. Mitch, Martha, and Jackie drink coffee in the living room while they listen for the sound of a car in the driveway.

Mitch goes out the door first when it finally comes.

“Frank!” He looks so much older, and she’s still not used to that scar on his face, but he’s home and he’s alive, and she can’t make herself care about anything else right now.

She grabs her little brother in a tight hug, lifting him off the ground easily. It’s good to have him _home_.

“Mitch!” He laughs, still in her grip. “Look who I found!”

Mitch glances over to look at Frank’s companion, and then everything stops.

**This is a lie:** Agent Michigan first sees her brother again outside of Rat’s Nest, and it’s a betrayal that digs deep into her side, because he is supposed to be _safe_.

“David?” She blurts, unthinking, rattled to her core by the voice.

**This is true:** “David,” she whispers. It’s impossible, it’s a dream. He’s covered in scars and his hair is a salt and pepper mix of grey and blond and his eyes are tired but he’s _here_.

“Hey Mitch,” he says with a tired grin, and it’s _him_. It can’t be anyone else. It’s been over a decade, but she knows him.

“You asshole!” She yells, before dropping Frank unthinkingly and tackling David to the ground. Gravel goes flying and she might have hurt him, but she doesn’t care because he’s _here_ , he’s real, he’s alive. “You complete—I can’t believe— _you didn’t call ahead you fucking douchebag_.”

“Aren’t you a mom now?” He laughs, and even his voice is different, a ragged edge to it that was never there before, but she can think about that later. “Language!”

“Jackie! Martha! Get out here!” Mitch yells, hauling him to his feet. She’s not crying. Not yet. That comes later.

“No need to shout,” Martha laughs, pushing her way out of the door. “We’ve all missed Frank, there’s no need to—” She stops.

“C’mon!” Jackie is stuck behind her. “Move, I want to see my baby brother!” She can’t see over Martha’s shoulder—her view blocked by her older sister.

**This is a lie:** Martha knows anger better than she knows her own name. She’s always angry these days. But seeing David’s face, alive and scarred and scared, boils the blood in her veins.

She yells. “Get the fuck out of here!”

**This is true:** “ _David_!” Martha doesn’t bother with the staircase, vaulting over the rail of the porch so she can throw herself at her brother. Martha can’t believe it. He’s _back_. David’s _back._

“Missed you too,” David says.

“I am going to murder you,” says Martha. She can’t _believe them_ , pulling this. Coming home without a letter ahead, without warning. She’s sure Frank thought it was a hilarious surprise.

**This is a lie:** Jackie and Wash see each other from different sides of a video screen, and both think the other has been through hell.

“Who the fuck is that?” Jackie demands. “How many times do I have to tell you assholes? My brother is _dead_! They both are! I’ve never seen that stranger before in my _life_!”

**This is true:** “Don’t kill him, we just got him back,” Jackie says practically, and she thinks her smile might be too big for her face. She lets go of him to examine him. She knows she should be look at Frank as well; it’s unfair for David to be soaking up all their attention, but she can’t take her eyes off David. “What the hell _happened_?”

“It’s a _very_ long story,” he says, and every instinct she has tells her that might be an understatement. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“Inside, cooking.” Mitch says. “My kids and Andi are in town—they’ll be home tonight. They wanted to give us privacy.”

“Andi?” David asks. Jackie wonders how much he knows; how much Frank has had time to tell him.

“My wife,” Mitch tells him. Jackie sees David’s eyes go to Mitch’s wedding ring.

“Right, I knew that.”

Mitch smiles at him, and Jackie wonders if Mitch feels as light as she does. “C’mon, big brother.” They all crowd into the house, Mitch taking the lead, pulling David along behind her.

They arrive in the kitchen. Dad drops the pan full of macaroni and cheese. Mom screams.

 “Where have you been?” Mom cups David’s face in her hands, and she’s shaking slightly, her eyes over bright with tears that aren’t falling yet.

“War,” he says tiredly.

**This is a lie:** “ _Frank_?” Wash says, the first time he sees his brother’s face in years.

“Who?” Church stares at him blankly. His eyes are blue. The same blue as Wash’s, the same blue as Jackie’s.

**This is true:** “Wash found me on Chorus!” Donut says, grinning. Maybe it’s a bit of a lie, he knows, but the rest of it is complicated. And it’s where they really found each other, so that’s all that matters.

There’s macaroni and cheese to eat and stories to tell. And later, the rest of their family will follow them home.

Franklin Delano Donut has three sisters and a brother. He has two biological parents, a Sarge, and a few brothers in arms. He has a brother-in-law, a sister-in-law, and three nieces and two nephews, even if he doesn’t know about all those quite yet.

It’s not perfect.

But it’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat on [tumblr](http://www.secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com) if you want! Also, there will probably be more of these AUs sometime in the future, although I'll probably be taking a bit of a break to make sure you guys don't get sick with me XD.

**Author's Note:**

> Like these AUs? Want to know what else might happen? Head on over to [Tumblr](http://www.secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com)and check out my [Donut Siblings tag!](http://secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com/tagged/Donut-Siblings)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Lie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6603163) by [Sroloc_Elbisivni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sroloc_Elbisivni/pseuds/Sroloc_Elbisivni)




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